5^ 


f<r^ 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

ESTATE   OF 
HUBERT   ORRISS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


I.  Esthetics  ;  or,  The  Science  of  Beauty.    8vo,  cloth |1.50 

II.  Ethics;  or,  The  Science  of  Duty.     8vo,  cloth 1.75 

III.  Natural  Theology.     8vo,  cloth 1.50 

IV.  The  Science  op  Mind.     8vo,  cloth _ 3.00 

V.  The  Philosophy  of  English  Literature.     Lectures  deliv- 
ered before  the  Lowell  Institute,  Boston.     8vo,  cloth 1.50 

VI.  Comparative  Psychology  ;  or,  the  Growth  and  Grades  of 

Intelligence.     8vo,  cl  )th 1.50 

VII.  A  Philosophy  of  Religion  ;   or,  the  Rational  Grounds 

of  Religious  Belief.     8vo,  cloth 3.00 

VIII.  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric.      8vo,  cloth 1.35 

IX.  The  Words  of  Christ.     8vo,  cloth 1.50 

X.  Problems  in  Philosophy.     8vo,  cloth 1.50 

XI.  Sociology.     8vo,  cloth 1.50 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  London 


PHILOSOPHY 


English   Literature 


A  COURSE   OF   LECTURES   DELIVERED   IN 
THE   LOWELL  INSTITUTE 


JOHN    B  A  S  C  O  M 


AUTHOR    OF        PKINCIPI.es    OF   PSYCHOLOGY,  SCIEN'CE,    PHILOSOPHY   AND 

RELIGION,"    "  iESTHETICS  " 


G,   P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 

NEW     YORK  LONDON 

27    WEST   TWENTY-THIRD    STREET  24    BEDFORD    STREET,  STRAND 

Sbe  llmcktrbothtr  '^Qxtss 
1893 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

JO  HN      B ASCO  M, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at   Washington, 


Press  of 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  Vork 


PREFACE. 


There  are,  in  each  department  of  knowledge, 
central  facts  and  germinant  principles.  If  we  reach 
these  early  and  well,  the  labors  of  acquisition  are 
greatly  lightened.  They  serve  to  explain  to  the 
mind,  and  to  hold  for  the  memory,  those  multitudi- 
nous minor  facts  which  otherwise  confuse  the 
one  and  burden  the  other.  It  is  a  secret  of  wise 
acquisition,  to  learn  the  most  in  learning  the  least, 
md  we  do  this  by  directing  attention  at  once  to 
leading,  fruitful  facts.  The  ground  is  thus  outlined  ; 
we  know  where  to  look  for  particulars  ;  and  these, 
as  they  come  to  us  by  direct  search,  or  as  incidents 
of  growing  information,  fall  at  once  into  their  place, 
strengthen  our  general  hold  of  truth,  and  are  them- 
selves securely  rolled  in  and  bound  up  in  the  com- 
pact bundle  of  knowledge. 

The  object  of  the  lectures  herewith  published  is 
to  put  the  general  reader  and  the  student  of  Eng- 
lish Literature  into  early  possession  of  the  leading 
influences  operative  in  it,  and  thus  to  enable  them 
to  peruse  and  to  study  its  numerous  productions 
with  more  insight,  more  pleasure,  a  better  mastery 
of  relations,  and  a  more  ready  retention  of  facts. 
A  net-work  of  forces  is  here  given,  which,  cover- 
ing the  entire  field,  may  enable  thcin    easily   to   in- 

(  iii  ) 


iV  PREFACE. 

close  and  attach  the  ideas  each  day  furnished  in 
this  range  of  knowledge.  We  have  termed  our 
work  a  Philosophy  of  English  Literature,  as  indica- 
ting a  discussion  of  causes,  of  controlling  tenden- 
cies, and  leading  minds,  rather  than  a  presentation 
of  details,  a  reproduction  of  facts  in  their  chrono 
logical  connections. 

A  class  pursuing  English  literature  by  the  aid 
of  text-books  like  Craik's,  Shaw's,  Spalding's, 
Angus',  Oilman's,  might,  we  believe,  carry  on  a 
review  to  advantage  in  connection  with  these  lec- 
tures. The  last  impression  would  thus  be  one 
more  organic  and  living  than  that  ordinarily 
reached. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  suppose  what  is  said  in 
these  lectures  is  wholly  proportionate,  or  entirely 
sufficient,  in  order  that  the  student  may,  by  means 
of  it,  reach  the  end  here  proposed.  It  will  be 
enough  if  the  lines  of  thought  struck  out,  and  the 
considerations  brought  forward,  are  those  which  in- 
terlace and  occupy  the  field.  Each  reader  will  then 
easily  make  such  additions  and  modifications  as  his 
own  mind  suggests,  and  the  facts  before  him  seem 
to  require.  We  have  followed  freely  the  bent  of 
our  own  thoughts,  and  our  conclusions  therefore 
will  not  be  found  exactly  parallel  with  those  which 
others  are  reaching.  If  they  provoke  question, 
they  may  not  for  that  reason  be  less  valuable,  pro- 
vided the  discussion  leads  to  a  better  insight  into 
principles. 


CONTENTS. 


INITIATIVE   PERIOD. 
LAST  H.A.LF  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 

Lecture  I.  Pagb. 

Three  Forms  of  Value  in  Literature 2 

The  Chief  Element,  the  Emotional  One 3 

Mere  Thought,  Secondary 4 

Definition  of  English  Literature 5 

Influence  of  Ethical  Sentiment 6 

Literature,  How  to  be  Treated 8 

The  National  Character 9 

Its  Two  Constituents 10 

Character  of  the  Normans II 

Their  Points  of  Superiority  (a)  Arms  {i>)  Cultivation  (c) 

Religion 13 

Relation  of  Normans  and  Saxons 14 

Growing  Unity  between  them 15 

English  Character 17 

Foreign  hijluences 18 

(i)  Classical 19 

(2)  Italian 20 

(3)  Nor7nan 21 

The  Romances  are  Interesting  to  us.  Why 22 

Minstrels 23 

Summary , 24 

Lecture  II. 

Home  Injliceitces 26 

(l)  Religions  Forces .,t 27 

The  Characters  of  the  Canterbury  Tales 28 

Contradictions  in  Religious  Characters 31 

(v) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Pagb. 

Two  Irritations  {a)  of  Ethical  Sense 32 

{&}  Of  Common  Sense 33 

Friar  and  Summoner 34 

(2)  Social  Forces 34 

Chivalry,  Character  of 35 

Effects  of 36 

Influence  on  Women 37 

Pride  of  English 38 

Relation  of  Leader  and  Retainer 39 

Condition  of  the  Working  Classes 40 

Character  of  Women 41 

Effects  of  the  Times  upon  them 42 

Action  of  the  Church  toward  Woman 43 

Licentiousness  of  Language 44 

(3)  Language 45 

Elements  of  the  English  Language 46 

(4)  Forms  of  Literature 48 

Poetry  precedes  Prose 49 

Sir  John  Mandeville,  Wicliffe 50 

Lecture  III. 

Chaucer 5' 

His  Character ;..  52 

The  First  National  Poet 53 

His  Indebtedness  to  Piers  Ploughman 54 

His  Free,  Political  Spirit 55 

Progressive  in  Poetry 5^ 

Allegory 57 

His  Dramatic  Powei 59 

His  Humor  and  Pathos 60 

His  Sensuality 61 

His  Love  of  Nature 62 

The  Poet  not  a  Reformer 63 

RETROGRESSIVE   PERIOD. 

FHE    FIFTEENTH,  AND   FIRST   HALF  OF  THE   SIXTEENTH,  CENH/RY. 

Due  to 

(1)  Repression  of  Inquiry 65 

(2)  Civil  Wars 66 


CONTENTS.  VU 

Pagb. 

Effects  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses , . . . .  67 

Introduction  of  Printing , 67 

Barrenness  of  the  Times , 68 

FIRST   CREATIVE   PERIOD. 

rHH    LAST  PORTION   OF  THE   SIXTEENTH,  AND   THE   FIRST  PORTION 
OF  THE   SEVENTEENTH,  CENTURY. 

The  Weight  of  the  Ethical  Element 69 

Lecture  IV. — General  Injluences  at   work  in   the   Creative 
Period. 

(1)  Activity  of  Religions  Sentiment 75 

Political  Events  affected  by  it 76 

Domestic  Events  affected  by  it 77 

Effect  of  the  English  Bible  on  Literature 78 

Various  Versions 80 

Theological  Composition 81 

Polemics  and  Literature 82 

Prose  style 84 

Hooker 85 

(2)  Revival  of  Classical  Learning 85 

Diversity  of  Effects 86 

(3)  Groivth  of  Science 88 

Bacon 89 

(4)  Geographical  Discovery 92 

(5)  Invention 93 

Printing 94 

Gunpowder 95 

Special  Influences  at  work  in  this  period. 

(1)  Classical  Scholarship  in  England 9^ 

(2)  Italian  Scholarship 96 

Surrey 97 

(3)  Peaceful  Reign  of  Elizabeth 98 

(4)  Chivalrous  Spirit  of  her  Court 98 

(5)  Social  State 9^ 

(6)  Branches  of  Literature 100 

Themes  of  Poetry lOX 

Lecture  V. 

Infl  uences  of  Climate I0» 


VIU  CONTENTS. 

Pagb. 

Power  of  Individuals 105 

Spenser 

His  Character 106 

Faery  Queen 108 

An  Allegorical  Poem 109 

A  Narrative  Poem lie 

Its  Length 112 

A  Religious  Poem 113 

A  Poem  for  Poets 114 

English  Drama 114 

Historic  Rise 117 

Shakespeare 

His  Rank 118 

His  Power 119 

His  Relation  to  Art 121 

His  English  Character 122 

His  Relation  to  Morality 124 

Lecture  VI. 

Spenser,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton,  contrasted 128 

Milton,  his  Puritanic  Sentiments 129 

Periods  in  his  Life 130 

His  Style 131 

Paradise  Lost 132 

Criticisms  on  it 133 

Milton  as  belonging  to  the  Elizabethan  Era 134 

FIRST  TRANSITION   PERIOD. 

LAST   PORTION   OF  THE   SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY. 

Reformatory  Periods  Critical 136 

Puritan  Character 137 

Transitional  Features 

(1)  Conflict  of  pai-ties , I38 

The  Drama,  its  Debasement 140 

Causes  of  the  Degeneracy  of  the  Theatre 

(a)  Monetary  Influences 142 

(f)  Moral  Influences I<j2 

(c)  Cultivation  of  Scenic  Effects ,  143 

i^d)  Unfitness  for  High  Sentiment 144 

(2)  Conflict  of  Frettch  and  English  Tastes 145 


CONTENTS.  U 

Pack. 

English  and  French  Character 146 

(3)  Conflict  of  Creative  and  Critical  Tendencies 14S 

Drydcn 149 

His  Character 150 

Subservient  to  his  Times I5' 

His  Moral  Weakness 152 

Estimate  of  his  Works 153 

Lecture  VH. 

FIRST   CRITICAL   PERIOD, 

[NCLUDING    THE    EARLY  AND    MIDDLE    PORTIONS    OF    THE    EIGH- 
TEENTH  CENTURY. 

Balance  of  the  Creative  and  the  Critical  Periods 155 

Form  and  Substance 156 

Pope  Aimed  at  Formal  Correctness 157 

Value  of  the  Results, 158 

Opinions  held  of  Pope  as  a  Poet 159 

Rank  of  his  Poetry 160 

Poetry  and  Prose  of  the  Period 162 

Causes  at  Work  to  Produce  the  Period 

^l)  Criticis9)i  tiaticrally  follows  Invention 1 63 

(2)  French  Influence 1 64 

(3)  Classical  Influence 165 

(4)  Science 166 

(5)  Political  and  Social  Spirit  of  the  Period 1 68 

Pohtical  Parties 169 

Improvement  in  Morals 1 70 

The  Papers  of  Steele 171 

Their  Purpose 172 

Their  Qualities , J 73 

The  Moral  Element  in  Addison 175 

X      Leadership 176 

Swift 178 

Pope 1 79 

Steele 179 

Addison , 180 

Lecture  VIII. 

Second  Phase  of  the  Critical  Period 182 

Relation  in  it  of  Prose  and  Poetiy 183 


T  CONTENTS. 

Pacb. 

Differences  between  the  First  and  Second  Phases 184 

(a)  Pre-eminence  of  Prose  {d)  Influence  of  Johnson 185 

Style  of  Johnson 187 

(1)  Growth  of  Prose 190 

Theology  and  Philosophy 191 

Political  Science  and  History 193 

Oratory 196 

Rhetoric  and  the  Novel 197 

(2)  Influence  of  Johnson 199 

Personal  Qualities 200 

Reputation 202 

Critical  Powers 203 

His  Control 206 

Lecture  IX. 

SECOND   TRANSITION    PERIOD. 

LAST  PORTION   OF  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY. 

Relativon  of  Periods 209 

Three  Periods  in  our  Literature  stand  in  natural  Sequence  2-10 

Aienside 213 

Thomson 214 

G}'ay,  Collins 216 

Co-difer 217 

His  Relation  to  the  Coming  Era 218 

His  Traits 219 

His  Devotion 220 

Bums 221 

The  Slight  Hold  on  him  of  Conventional  Forces 222 

The  I  nriuences  making  way  for  a  New  Era 2  23 

(i)  Interest  in  Early  English  Poetry 223 

Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Englisli  Poetry 224 

(2)  German  Influence 225 

Relation  in  Thought,  of  Germany,  France,  and  England..  226 

Value  in  Philosophy  of  a  Practical  Bent 227 

{3)  Political  Eights  and  Liberty 230 

American  Revolution 230 

French  Revolution 23 1 

Effects  on  different  Persons 232 

{4)  Philosophy  and  Theology 233 

Coleridge 233 


CONTENTS.  XI 

Pagb. 

France  and  Engl  ind 234 

(5)  Convergence  of  Tendetu'es 233 

LECTURE   X. 

SECOND   CREATIVE   PERIOD. 

FIRST   PORTION   OF   THE   NINETEENTH   CENTURY. 

Contrasted  with  the  First  Creative  Period 237 

Poetry,  its  Predominating  Feature 238 

The  Influence  of  Men  of  Genius 238 

Spencer's  View 239 

Taine's  View 240 

The  Relation  of  Individual  and  National  Life 241 

Walter  Scott 246 

His  Powers 247 

His  Personal  Character , 248 

~  Byron 249 

His  Character 25c 

His  Worlcs 251 

His  Immorality 252 

Coleridge 254 

A  Philosopher,  Poet  and  Critic . . . , 254 

His  Conversational  Powers 255 

His  Influence 256 

Wordsworth ,  ....  257 

His  Relation  to  Poetry 258 

His  Relation  to  Political  Questions 260 

His  Powers 261 

~  Shelley 262 

His  Purpose ....  263 

Lecture  XI. 

PERIOD  OF  DIFFUSION. 

THE   PRESENT. 

Opening  of  the  Last  Three  Centuries .... 265 

The  Present  a  Period  of  Prose 266 

One  of  Diffusion 367 

Science,  History 268 

The  NoT^el  and  the  Newspaper,  Chief  Features 269 

The  Novel,  its  OfBce 27c 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

I'ACB 

A  Classification  of  Novels 2yi 

Its  Excellencies 275 

The  Superiority  of  Our  Time  in  this  Respect 277 

The  Nrwspaper 278 

Amount  of  Circulation 279 

{a)  Favors  the  Rapid  Solution  of  Social  Questions 2!<a 

{b)  Tends  to  the  Vigor,  Soundness,  and  Candor,  of  Public 

Opinion 282 

So)  riety  of  Judgment  of  the  English  Race 283 

(c)  \  Chief  Resistance  to  Corruption 285 

{d  Affects  Beneficially  Public  Education  and  the  Pulpit..   285 

{e]  Diffuses  the  Influence  of  Cities 2S6 

TI  •  Evils  of  the  Press,  Social  and  Literary 287 

Ci'ticism 289 

Lecturp  XII. 

ENGLISH   PHILOSOPHY, 

Tei  ns  Defined 292 

Lin  ?  of  Descent  in  English  Philosophy 293 

The  Source  of  Knowledge  taken  as  the  Central  Idea 293 

Bac  n 294 

Hoi  'es 296 

Cudworth 297 

Lode 297 

Shaftesbury 300 

Clarke,  Berkeley 301 

Hartley,  Priestley , 302 

Hume 304 

His  view  of  Miracles 308 

Paley,  Bent/mm,  Bain 309 

Mackintosh,  Whewell 311 

Spencer 311 

The  Mills 312 

The  Leading  Conclusions  of  the  English  School  of  Phi- 
losophy    313 

The  Scottish  School 314 

Reid 314 

Hamilton 315 

Rejection  of  the  word,  Materialism,  by  the  English  School  316 
The  Contradictions  of  this  School 317 


THE    PniLOSOPIIY 

OF 

e:n'glish  literature. 


LECTURE   I. 

Literature. — Its  Essential  Cliaracteristics. — Variable  Use  of  the 
Word. — The  Initiative  Period  in  English  Literature. — Last  half 
of  Fourteenth  Century  the  Date  of  the  English  Nation,  Lan- 
guage and  Literature. — Anglo-Saxov:  Element. — Norman  Ele- 
ment.— Norman  Superiority. — Early  Relation  of  the  Two. — 
Causes  which  United  Them. — English  Character. — Foreign  In- 
fluences :  First,  Classical ;  Second,  Italian ;  Third,  Norman, 

The  literature  of  a  nation  is  the  embodiment  of 
that  which  is  most  artistic  and  complete  in  its  intel- 
lectual, literary  life.  There  are  many  practical 
products  of  composition,  records,  chronicles,  works 
of  instruction,  of  science,  and  of  reference,  which 
contain  the  material  of  knowledge,  the  raw  staple 
of  art,  but  are  not  literature.  These  change  with 
succeeding  years,  and  reappear  in  altered  and  en- 
larged forms,  as  the  progress  of  events  and  investi- 
gation determine.  Many  books,  in  each  generation, 
are  the  .i-eed  which  is  returned  to  the  soil  as  the 
condition  of  farther  increase.  No  work  is  a  part  of 
national  literature,  in  its  more  specific  sense,  till  it 
is  possessed  of  such  merit  of  execution,  aside  from 

(i) 


2   THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

mere  matter,  or  it  were  better  to  say  in  conjunction 
with  matter,  as  to  give  it  permanent  value.  Thought 
alone,  the  substance  of  wisdom  merely,  cannot 
save  a  work  to  literature.  It  may  be  rather  the  oc- 
casion of  its  speedy  disappearance.  More  skilful 
laborers  will  swarm  around  the  sweet  morsel,  let 
fall  as  it  were  in  the  highway  of  thought,  and  each 
bear  off  a  portion  of  the  unidentified  product.  It  is 
some  completeness,  symmetry,  excellence  of  form 
that  gives  identity,  ownership  to  a  product ;  and  a 
permanent  interest  in  its  careful,  exact  preservation. 
There  are  in  literature  three  forms  of  value,  an 
intellectual,  an  emotional  and  an  expressional  one. 
The  thought-value  is  the  most  stable,  residuary  ele- 
ment; the  emotional  and  expressional  values  are 
the  constituents  most  changeable  and  volatile. 
These  two  are  thoroughly  interdependent,  and  ac- 
cording as  merit  passes  to  this  end  of  the  scale,  is 
the  literary  excellence  of  a  work  declared. 

Thought  as  thought  is  saved,  no  matter  how  often 
it  is  altered  in  expression,  and  reappears  in  new  re- 
lations. Form  alone,  in  subtile  fellowship  with 
emotional  power,  necessitates  careful  transmission. 
Gold  as  bullion  waits  momentarily  on  the  arts  for 
working  up ;  stamped  as  coin,  or  wrought  as  orna- 
ment, it  has  a  new  character,  an  enhanced  value, 
that  everywhere  attend  upon  it,  and  guard  it. 

In  proportion  as  the  excellence  of  the  form 
transcends  the  value  of  the  matter,  does  the  literary 
work  gain  perpetuity.  The  poems  of  Shakespeare 
and  Milton  hold  their  present  position,  not  from  any 
new  truths  they  announce,  not  from  facts  of  history 


FORM    IN    LITERATURE.  3 

or  of  science  they  contain,  but  through  the  superior, 
inimitable  workmanship  which  belongs  to  them. 
Material,  for  the  most  part  fanciful,  thus  acquires 
an  interest,  and  receives  an  estimate,  that  fall  to  no 
records  of  history,  no  facts  of  science,  however  val- 
uable these  may  be.  Indeed,  in  proportion  as  th 
very  substance  of  a  literary  work,  the  thought  il 
contains,  becomes  important,  is  it  difficult  for  it  to 
claim  and  hold  a  place  in  literature.  The  material 
of  history  in  so  large  a  measure  confers  upon  it  its 
value,  that  each  succeeding  work,  the  product  of 
more  investigation,  tends  to  displace  preceding 
ones ;  and  only  rare  excellencies  of  style  can  keep 
the  early  historian  in  possession  of  the  national 
mind.  The  very  interest  of  the  facts  stated  stimu- 
lates farther  inquiry,  and  this  pushes  into  the  back- 
ground those  who  first  contributed  to  it.  The  hard 
workers,  the  investigators  and  compilers,  in  the 
fields  oi  knowledge,  descend  by  genesis  only  to 
those  who  come  after  them  ;  their  discoveries,  their 
theories,  like  wind-sown  flowers,  enrich  many  who 
are  ignorant  of  their  origin. 

Literature,  then,  is  essentially  of  an  artistic 
character ;  poetry  is  its  chief  product ;  and  all  its 
creations  hold  their  ground  by  completeness  and 
beauty  of  form.  The  material  is  as  often  imagina- 
tive as  historical,  and  must,  even  in  the  essay,  get 
its  peculiar  character  and  coloring  from  the  mind 
of  the  writer.  There  must  be  in  the  literary  work, 
as  in  the  crystal,  something  which  cannot  be  broken 
in  on  without  loss,  something  in  itself  specific  and 
final.     It  is,  in  fact,  the  individual  mind  which  the 


4       THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

nation  treasures  up  in  literature ;  and  he  who  has* 
only  common  truths,  that  which  is  or  may  be  the 
spoil  of  all,  to  bring,  can  find  no  entrance  to  this 
gallery  of  art.  His  contributions  are  valuable,  but 
they  have  other  and  coarser  storehouses  than  those 
in  which  beauty  garners  her  own.  He  must  bear  his 
useful  things  to  the  markets  in  which  like  products 
are  bought  and  sold. 

There  seems,  at  first,  something  a  little  unequal 
and  harsh  in  this,  that  the  patient  laborer  is  so  ea- 
sily thrust  back  by  the  artist,  he  who  gives  bread 
by  him  who  gives  visions  ;  yet  we  are  willing  to  ac- 
cept it  as  one  more  proof  that  spiritualities,  inspira- 
tions, creative  touches,  though  they  be  mere  traces 
of  light,  are  more  to  man  than  the  solid,  coarse- 
grained comforts  of  being.  Those  who  bring  us 
these  fare. as  servants,  and  those  who  fling  care- 
lessly to  us  those  rarer  gifts  are  sought  after,  and 
entertained  as  angels  ;  yet  at  times  a  little  too 
much  on  the  light  food  of  posthumous  praise. 

The  word  literature  is  determined  in  its  breadth 
by  its  connections.  When  we  speak  of  the  litera- 
ture of  one  department  of  knowledge,  as  chemistry, 
the  artistic  quality  is  comparatively  overlooked,  and 
all  works  of  merit  that  have  been  written  on  the 
subject  are  included.  If  we  refer  to  the  literature 
of  a  particular  century,  as  of  the  sixteenth  century 
in  England,  we  then  gather  up  in  the  word  more 
carefully  all  the  literary  products  of  that  period, 
though  some  of  them  may  since  have  sunk  out  of 
sight.  In  the  words,  English  literature,  we  should 
comprise  only  those  works  whose  artist'C  merit  has 


DEFINITION    OF    LITERATURE.  5 

put  them  ill  permanent  possession  of  the  mind  of 
the  nation ;  which  hold  on  their  way,  not  through 
years,  but  through  centuries.  Yet  few  even  of 
these  would  reappear  in  the  world's  literature,  as 
working  for  themselves  an  abiding-place  in  the  edu- 
cated thought  of  different  nations.  While  the  word, 
therefore,  is  always  inclining  towards  merit  of  form, 
and  the  more  with  each  extension  of  it,  the  theme, 
the  time  and  the  territory  in  which  the  literary  suc- 
cess has  been  achieved  are  indicated  by  the  qualify- 
ing adjective,  and  our  definition  becomes  a  conjoint 
one.  English  literature  is  made  up  of  those  Eng- 
lish writings  which  have  gained  a  permanent  place 
in  the  regard  of  the  English  people.  This  position 
has  been  won  by  artistic  excellence,  and  hence  oui 
literature  is,  in  letters,  our  national  art-gallery. 
The  broader  the  field  which  the  collection  covers, 
the  more  select  are  its  constituents  ;  while  restric- 
tion in  time  or  place  makes  lighter  the  conditions 
of  admission. 

We  have  pushed  this  point  clearly  out,  that  the 
pleasures  of  literature  are  essentially  aesthetic,  be- 
cause it  will  aid  us  in  a  just  estimate  of  the  merits 
of  English  literature,  and  of  the  forces  which  have 
affected  it.  We  hold  it  to  be  a  general  truth,  that 
moral  influences,  the  ethical  tone  of  sentiment,  the 
spiritually  perceptive  powers  are  pre-eminently  united 
to  works  of  literary  art.  This  seerns  to  follow  from 
the  fact,  that  nothing  mounts  into  the  region  of  art 
without  undergoing  some  transformation,  receiving 
buoyancy  and  color  from  the  mind  that  wings  it  for 
flight.     Art  is  not  literal,  is  not  commonplace,  mere 


6   THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

copy;  but  owes  much  to  selection,  arrangement, 
mfused  character  and  infused  life.  Now  this  in- 
fusion which  goes  mantling  through  the  new,  the 
beautiful  product  is  the  intellectual,  spiritual  life 
and  movement  of  the  artist ;  and  as  the  artist  him- 
self is  known  in  his  temper  and  moods  by  their  re- 
lation to  the  supreme  element  of  his  nature,  to  the 
ethical  temperature  of  his  own  soul,  so  are  his 
works.  What  the  light  is  to  the  landscape,  grading 
it  in  its  every  degree  of  emotion,  lifting  it  up  to  the 
key-note  of  highest  joy  and  exultation  ;  or  depress- 
ing it  to  the  deepest  sadness  and  unmingled  fear ; 
or  leaving  it  in  the  midway  region  of  commonplace 
comforts  ;  that  is  the  moral  revelation  to  the  liter- 
ary work,  revealing  men,  revealing  things  and 
thoughts  even,  under  a  sportive  and  jocular,  a  se- 
rene and  reflective,  or  a  stern  and  portentous  aspect, 
according  to  the  soul  that  is  in  it.  We  are  not  to 
be  understood,  of  course,  as  restricting  the  word 
ethical  to  precepts  of  conduct,  more  or  less  numer- 
ous, but  rather  as  referring  by  it  to  that  tacit  dec- 
laration which  every  man  makes  of  the  nature  of 
life,  its  delights,  its  insights,  its  achievements ;  and 
of  the  ministrations  of  God,  society  and  nature  to  it. 
The  soul  of  man  is  centred  in  his  moral  constitu- 
tion ;  that  is  in  his  perceptions  of  the  objects  and 
forms,  and  hence  of  the  beauties,  of  rational  action. 
He  can  gain  no  orbit  of  thought;  he  can  reach  not 
even  the  conventional  excellencies  of  character,  the 
courage  of  manhood,  the  gentleness  of  womanhood ; 
he  can  give  no  interpretation  to  the  voices  of  na- 
ture, save  as  he  does  it  by  one  or  more  of  those 


INFI  UENCE    OF    ETHICAL    ELEMENT.  ^ 

ethical  sentiments  that  spring  from  the  depths  of 
his  being,  -that  belong  to  him  as  man,  under  larger 
joys,  and  severer  sufferings,  and  sterner  laws  and 
more  enduring  hopes  than  those  which  fall  to  the 
animals  about  him.  As  man  sinks  in  action,  in 
emotion,  in  intuition,  he  loses  high  art;  as  he  as- 
cends he  regains  it,  effecting  a  new  entrance  into 
that  which  is  peculiar  to  himself,  to  a  moral  being 
with  springs  and  laws  of  life  hidden  in  its  superiorly 
perceptive  constitution.  Even  comedy  cannot 
thrive  on  mere  trifles.  Unless  its  laugh  has  elation, 
election,  taste,  sense  and  sensibility  in  it,  it  sinks 
to  low  burlesque,  in  which  the  animal  appetites  so 
predominate,  that  we  find  ourselves  in  action  and 
impulse  facing  downward  toward  the  brute.  The 
poet  Schiller  seems  to  have  been  possessed  of  this 
principle  in  a  more  tense  form  than  we  have  ven- 
tured on.  "There  was  in  him,"  says  his  biograph- 
er, "  a  singular  ardor  for  truth,  a  solemn  conviction 
of  the  duties  of  a  poet,  a  deep-rooted  idea  on  which 
we  have  been  more  than  once  called  to  insist,  that 
the  minstrel  should  be  a  preacher.  That  song 
is  the  sister  of  religion  in  its  largest  sense ;  that 
the  stage  is  the  pulpit  to  all  sects,  all  nations,  all 
time."  *  The  difference  between  men  is  great ;  it 
lies  here.  To  one  nothing  is  religious  which  is  not 
coldly,  formally  preceptive ;  to  another  nothing  fails 
of  religion,  which  at  all  reaches  the  heart.  It  is, 
then,  of  English  literature  in  its  associated  artistic 
and  ethical  forces,  of  necessity  gathering  strength 
and  beauty  from  that  which  is  in  man  most  beauti- 

*  «•  Bibliotheca  Sacra,"  Oct.  No.,  1871,  p.  716. 


8       THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

ful  and  strong,  that  we  are  to  speak.  If  it  has  been 
at  times  like  a  tropical  forest,  infested  by  a  rank 
undergrowth  of  briars,  we  may  be  sure  it  was  be- 
cause the  hot  and  reeking  atmosphere  engendered 
them,  entering  in  to  obstruct  and  hide  the  majestic 
life  above  them. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  give  the  facts  of  English 
literature,  we  shall  assume  a  general  knowledge  of 
them,  and  strive  to  trace  their  dependence.  We 
shall  start  with  the  earliest  works  of  pronounced 
merit  in  our  literary  history,  and  shall  speak  of  au- 
thors only  as  their  productions  are  themselves  a 
distinct  force,  giving  character  to  the  periods  under 
discussion. 

The  initiative  period  in  English  letters  covers 
the  last  half  of  the  fourteenth  century.  Literary  pe- 
riods have  no  definite  bounds.  As  the  slopes  of 
mountains  may  gently  rise  and  gently  descend 
again  to  the  plains  beyond,  leaving  their  midway 
line  and  general  trend  to  be  determined  by  isolated 
peaks  and  bold  ridges ;  so  periods  in  literature  are 
defined,  not  by  definite  dates,  but  by  persons  scat- 
tered through  them,  characteristic  tendencies  that 
stretch  across  them. 

The  initiative  period  was  one  of  vigorous  poetic 
life,  whose  chief  representative  was  Chaucer.  In 
an  effort  to  understand  this  introductory  era,  we 
shall  need  to  inquire  into  the  national  character, 
into  the  foreign  and  domestic  influences  prevalent, 
and  into  the  traits  of  individuals  whose  productions 
constitute  its  chief  intellectual  strength.  The  na- 
tional and  the   individual  elements  can  never  be 


NATIONAL    CHARACTER.  9 

separated  in  literature,  nor  do  they  maintain  any 
uniform  ratio  to  each  other.  In  writers  of  ordinary 
power,  the  conditions  under  which  they  compose 
their  works  exert  a  controlling  influence ;  in  writers 
of  genius,  this  influence,  though  still  felt,  is  over- 
shadowed by  personal  qualities.  The  direction  and 
general  character  of  their  labor  may  be  settled  by 
external  inducements,  but  its  method  of  accomplish- 
ment is  to  be  referred  to  their  own  powers.  Our 
first  inquiry  is  into  national  character.  It  is  through 
those  general  conditions  which  surround  and  en- 
velop the  individual,  and  whose  force  he  cannot  but 
feel,  either  in  assent  or  dissent,  that  we  at  length 
approach  the  seat  of  art  in  the  soul  of  the  artist. 

An  English  nationality,  like  an  English  lan- 
guage and  an  English  literature,  was  beginning  to 
appear  in  the  last  half  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  three  sprang  up  together;  they  had  one  birth, 
nationality,  language  and  literature ;  and  held  in 
union  the  same  elements.  The  root  of  our  language 
is  Saxon.  It  has  furnished,  though  in  connection 
with  revolutionary  changes,  the  grammatical  frame- 
work of  our  speech.  The  foreign  tongue,  which  foi 
a  time  overlay  and  at  length  largely  melted  into 
our  language,  saturating  it  with  its  vocabulary  so 
far  as  one  language  can  be  saturated  by  another, 
was  Norman  French. 

So  too  the  nation,  in  bulk  and  staple  Anglo- 
Saxon,  was  permeated,  put  in  active  ferment 
everywhere  with  Normans,  first  as  rulers,  after- 
ward as  leaders  and  fellow-subjects.  The  popular 
I'terature,  hitherto  chiefly  Norman,  began,  as  the 
I* 


lO    THE   PHILObv^.HY   OF    ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

fourteenth  century  drew  to  an  end,  to  be  English 
in  form  and  theme. 

The  two  elements,  then,  in  English  nationality, 
of  very  unequal  prevalence  and  unlike  characteris- 
tics, were  the  Saxon  and  the  Norman.  The  first 
remained  throughout,  the  substance  into  which  the 
second,  as  a  color  or  quality,  was  received  ;  consti- 
tuted the  material  shaped  by  the  latter  into  new 
forms,  and  enlarged  into  new  offices.  The  Saxon 
character,  though  less  brilliant  and  dominant  than 
the  Norman,  was  superior  to  it  in  patient  strength. 
The  Anglo-Saxon,  of  Low-German  origin,  seems 
to  have  possessed  the  qualities  which  belong  to  his 
kinsmen  of  the  continent.  Known  abroad  as  Sax- 
ons, early  spoken  of  by  themselves  as  Angles  or 
English,  they  have,  in  the  more  careful  historic 
use  of  the  present,  been  designated  as  Anglo-Sax- 
ons. For  six  hundred  years  they  had  held  by  ex- 
tirpation and  expulsion,  rather  than  by  conquest,  of 
its  inhabitants,  the  larger  share  of  Britain,  leaving 
to  the  Celts  the  mountains  of  the  west  and  north. 
At  the  time  of  the  Norman  conquest,  they  were 
possessed  of  less  enterprise  and  less  cultivation 
than  their  invaders  ;  but  more  equality,  greater  lib- 
erty, and  the  hardihood  of  stubborn  strength.  Their 
rights  were  ill-defined,  as  those  of  a  rude,  independ- 
ent people  are  wont  to  be  ;  but  centuries  were  re- 
quired after  the  conquest  to  win  again  for  the  gen- 
eral voice  of  the  nation  the  influence  that  fell  to  it 
under  the  Saxon  constitution.  The  sturdy  array 
of  foot-soldiers  and  the  heavy  battle-axes  with 
which  they  met  the  horsemen  and  bowmen  of  tne 


NORMANS.  II 

Normans  presented  in  a  visible  form  their  tough, 
unyielding  temper. 

The  Normans  were  in  many  respects  the  reverse 
of  the  Saxons.  These  had  occupied  England  for 
six  centuries  by  displacement,  with  comparatively 
slight  alterations  of  character  and  language.  Tue 
Normans,  in  less  than  a  third  of  that  time,  gained 
in  the  north  of  France,  a  new  speech,  and  gave  rise 
to  a  new  national  development.  They  did  not,  as 
the  Saxons,  expel  and  exclude  those  whom  they  in- 
vaded, but  included  them  in  a  fresh  life.  Not  only 
did  they  become  a  leading  element  in  the  formation 
of  the  French  monarchy  and  people ;  that  portion 
of  them  which  was  transferred  to  England,  in  a 
period  but  little  longer,  accepted  new  conditions, 
again  changed  their  language,  and  once  more  gath- 
ered, with  vigorous,  organizing  force,  a  new,  diverse 
and  independent  nation. 

"Above  all  men,"  says  one,  "the  Norman  was 
an  imitator,  and  therefore  an  improver;  and  it  was 
precisely  because  he  was  the  least  rigid,  most  sup- 
ple, plastic  and  accommodating  of  mortals,  that  he 
became  the  civilizer  and  ruler  wherever  he  was 
thrown.  In  France  he  became  French ;  in  Eng- 
land, English;  in  Italy,  Italian;  in  Novgorod,  Rus- 
sian. ■'■'  *  '"••"  Wherever  his  neighbors  invented 
or  possessed  anything  worthy  of  admiration,  the 
sharp,  inquisitive  Norman  poked  his  aquiline  nose. 
Wherever  what  we  now  call  the  march  of  intellect 
advanced,  there  was  the  sharp,  eager  face  of  the 
Norman  in  the  van.  He  always  intermarried  with 
!he  people  among  whom  he  settled,  borrowed  its 


12     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

language,  adopted  its  customs,  reconciled  himself 
to  its  laws,  and  confirmed  the  aristocracy  of  con- 
quest, by  representing,  while  elevating,  the  charac- 
ter of  the  people  with  whom  he  closely  identified 
himself."  "•'■" 

We  give,  as  another  illustration  of  the  flexibili- 
ty of  Norman  character,  the  control  soon  gained 
over  the  Irish  by  those  to  whom  lands  were  appor- 
tioned on  the  first  invasion  by  Henry  II.  This 
Norman  nobility  became  rapidly  Irish  in  character, 
outstripping  native  chiefs  in  indigenous  traits,  won 
an  easy  and  complete  ascendancy  over  the  primitive 
population,  and  were  cordially  sustained  by  them 
in  later  rebellions  against  English  rule.  "  Some 
most  powerful  families  rooted  themselves  in  the 
soil,  and  never  forsook  it ;  the  Geraldines,  of  Mun- 
ster  and  Kildare ;  the  Butlers,  of  Kilkenny ;  the  De 
liurghs,  the  Birminghams,  the  De  Courcies.  This 
complete  absorption  of  the  Norman  into  the  char- 
acter, customs,  feuds,  revolts  of  the  Irish  was  ex- 
pressed in  the  phrase '  Ipsis  H ibernis  Hiberniores.'  "f 
It  was  this  subtile,  diffusive,  adaptable,  and  spirited 
element  that  was  infused  by  the  conquest  into  the 
sluggish,  phlegmatic  Saxon  society ;  and  became 
the  nervous  system  in  the  body  politic,  with  wide 
awake  senses  and  a  rapid  interchange  of  influences 
calling  to  instant  service  and  active  subjection  the 
solid  bone  and  brawny  muscle  which  composed  the 
staple  of  English  strength. 

*  The  Examiner^  for  1848,  as  given  in  Stephen's  "  Literatuie 
of  the  Kymry,"  p.  429. 

f  Froude's  "  History  of  England,"  vol.  ii.  p.  238. 


SUPERIORITY    OF    NORMANS.  I3 

The  points  at  which  the  Normans  surpassed  the 
Saxons,  and  were  thus  prepared  to  contribute  new 
impulses  to  the  national  character,  were  three.  The 
first  of  these  was  in  weapons  and  warlike  enterprise. 
They  used  the  bow,  and  fought  on  horseback,  and 
were  thus  ready  for  more  aggressive  and  nimble 
movement,  for  skirmish  as  well  as  encounter.  The 
were  also  of  so  martial  a  turn  as  to  give  promise  of 
the  ultimate  unity  and  sure  defense  of  Britain.  No 
portion  of  Europe,  and  not  even  the  new  world,  were 
withheld  from  the  wild  adventure  of  this  race. 
Cape  Cod  is  set  down  as  the  western  limit  of  their 
explorations  as  early  as  the  commencement  of  "the 
eleventh  century. 

A  second  superiority  was  found  in  culture,  more 
particularly  in  poetry  and  architecture.  They  had 
shown  gains  in  both  of  these  directions,  and  were 
to  become,  in  Gothic  architecture,  the  most  skilful 
builders  in  Europe.  England  and  Normandy  pos- 
sess many  of  their  magnificent  structures.  In  po- 
etry also  they  were  relatively  cultivated,  their  min- 
strels dividing  with  those  of  southern  France  the 
honors  of  the  national  Romance  literature. 

Their  third  point  of  excellence,  worth  more  per- 
haps than  either  of  the  other  two,  was  the  piety  and 
intelligence  of  their  clergy.  Such  men  as  Anselm 
and  Lanfranc,  transferred  from  the  celebrated  ab- 
beys at  Bee  and  Caen,  were  more  superior  to  the 
native  Saxon  clergy  in  the  grounds  of  just  influence 
than  were  the  Norman  lords  to  the  Saxon  thanes. 
The  conquest  was  thus  attended  with  a  new  religious 
rule,  and  took  possession  of  authority  in  both  of  its 


14    THE    IMIILOSOPHY   OF    ENGLISH    LITERAIURE. 

great  branches.  The  leading  ecclesiastics,  of  which- 
ever portion  of  the  nation,  became  identified  with 
the  Normans.  We  find  among  them,  at  that  time 
and  later,  men  of  great  ability,  such  as  Thomas  a 
Becket  and  William  Wykeham.  Though  there  was 
occasionally  a  bitter  struggle  against  ecclesiastical 
influence  in  secular  affairs,  the  superior  clergy, 
directly  and  indirectly,  exercised  a  strong  civil  au- 
thority, and  were  parties  to  the  power  of  the  state. 

For  the  first  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  suc- 
ceeding the  conquest,  the  pride  and  arrogance  of 
the  Normans,  sustained  by  these  points  of  superi- 
ority, kept  them  aloof  from  the  Saxons.  The  op- 
pression also  which  these  suffered  from  their  rulers 
embittered  the  division,  and  made  the  inferior  party, 
as  is  wont  to  be  the  case,  even  more  hostile  than 
the  superior  one.  French  was  the  language  of  the 
court  and  of  polite  intercourse,  and  Saxon  speech 
became  a  badge  of  inferiority  and  dependence. 
Cultivation  and  rank  shrank  away  from  it,  and 
though  it  remained  unshaken  as  the  popular  tongue, 
it  soon  began  to  undergo  those  changes,  incident  to 
grammatical  decay,  by  which  it  passed  into  English. 
Resting  for  support  upon  the  ignorant,  and,  from  a 
literary  point  of  view,  the  indifferent  and  the  care- 
less ;  living  on  the  lips  of  the  people,  Saxon  speech 
suffered  a  rapid  loss  of  inflections  and  construction. 
These,  dropping  off  by  misuse  and  disuse,  left  the 
English  the  most  bald,  but  one  of  the  most  simple 
and  serviceable  of  languages. 

The  hostility  of  the  Saxon  subjects  to  their 
ruleis  was  maintained,  in  the  earlier  reigns,  by  the 


RELATIONS    OF    SAXONS    AND    NORMANS.  1 5 

connection  of  the  English  throne  with  ducal  author- 
ity in  Normandy,  making  the  fortunes  of  the  former 
dependent  on  the  latter;  and  by  the  severe  rule  of 
the  Normans,  especially  in  the  extension  of  forests, 
and  preservation  of  game.  Little  was  done  to  con- 
solidate the  nation  till  after  the  loss  of  Normandy 
under  king  John,  and  the  final  identification  of  th 
conquerors  with  England  as  the  exclusive  seat  of 
authority,  and  centre  of  all  possessions. 

There  were  indeed  influences  which  began  at 
once  to  abate  the  hostility  of  the  Saxons  and  Nor- 
mans, and  prepare  the  way  for  their  later  union  in 
one  nation.  The  clergy,  never  altogether  partisan 
in  its  character,  constantly  became  less  so.  The 
Englishman,  Saxon  or  Norman  in  descent,  found  an 
open  path  to  preferment  in  the  church;  and  thus 
the  Norman  features  of  authority  rapidly  softened 
in  that  most  influential  body,  the  clergy.  Thus 
both  Becket  and  Wykeham  came  up  from  the  peo- 
ple, and  won  by  talent  the  prominent  positions  they 
held. 

The  wars  also  of  the  Normans  in  Wales,  in  Ire- 
land and  on  the  continent,  made  them  more  de- 
pendent on  the  Saxons,  and  their  common  victories 
served  to  unite  the  two  races.  Add  to  these  causes 
the  softening  influences  of  time,  and  of  intercourse 
between  parties  of  very  unequal  opportunities  and 
rank,  indeed,  but  characterized  alike  by  solid  en- 
dowments, and  we  are  prepared  for  that  ultimate 
subsidence  of  the  flexible  Normans  into  the  mass 
of  the  community,  by  which  the  nation  became  one 
again  in  its  dissolved  and  evenly  diffiised  elements. 


l6    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

The  Norman  provinces  being  lost — a  fresh  in- 
debtedness of  the  nation,  like  that  for  the  first  char- 
ter of  its  liberties,  to  the  tyranny  and  weakness 
of  John — the  two  divisions  of  the  English  people, 
enclosed  in  one  kingdom,  and  one  island,  and  one 
set  of  interests ;  too  closely  interlocked  to  render 
separation  either  desirable  or  possible,  were,  in  the 
reign  of  Edward  III.,  firmly  compacted  and  welded 
together  by  their  common  national  victories  on  the 
continent ;  and  by  the  commencement  of  that  bitter 
warfare  with  France  which  evoked  a  rivalry  and 
hostility  of  the  two  nations,  from  that  time  on- 
ward shaping  the  history  of  both  of  them.  Already, 
then,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  had  there  begun  to 
be  a  movement  toward  liberty  at  home,  interesting 
Norman  lord  and  Saxon  thane  alike,  while  that 
century  beheld  the  two,  side  by  side,  as  English- 
men, gaining  great  victories  on  French  battle-fields, 
and  consolidating  their  national  unity  by  a  pro- 
longed conflict  with  those  who  had  been  to  the  Nor- 
man kinsmen  and  fellow-subjects.  In  the  battle  of 
Cressy,  the  English  yeomen,  a  Saxon  branch  of  the 
service,  became  a  recognized  national  feature  and 
national  power  by  the  stubbornness  with  which  they 
held  the  field.  This  sense  of  superior  unity,  this 
growth  of  English  influence  are  evinced  by  that  na- 
tional jealousy  which  compelled  Edward,  on  open- 
ing the  conflict,  to  declare,  "  We  will  and  grant  and 
stablish  that  our  said  realm  of  England,  nor  the 
people  of  the  same,  of  what  estate  or  condition  they 
be,  shall  not,  in  any  time  to  come,  be  put  in  subjec- 
tion nor  in  obeisance  of  us,  nor  of  our  heirs  and 


CONCESSIONS   TO    SAXONS.  I J 

Buccessors,  as  kings  of  France."  We  find  also  a 
similar  concession  to  national  feeling  in  the  law 
that  all  pleas  "  shall  be  pleaded,  shewed,  defended, 
answered,  debated  and  judged  in  the  English 
tongue."  This  was  not  only  a  step  toward  nation- 
ality, it  was  equally  one  toward  justice  and  liberty, 
by  bringing  the  action  of  the  courts  more  imme- 
diately under  the  knowledge  and  criticism  of  the 
people.  We  know  indeed  that  all  legal  and  legisla- 
tive proceedings  were  not  at  once  thereon  trans- 
ferred into  English,  but  for  a  time  bore  a  mixed 
character.  So  decisive  a  movement  could  not  com- 
plete itself  instantly.  In  France,  it  was  two  cen- 
turies and  one-half  later,  when  a  kindred  transfer 
into  the  vernacular  was  effected. 

What,  then,  are  the  features  of  English  character, 
appearing  in  this  new  nation,  whose  political,  social 
and  literary  elements  were,  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, passing  into  permanent  union }  The  English 
are  a  reflective  people,  as  opposed  to  an  impulsive, 
passionate  one.  Herein  they  are  the  reverse  of  the 
Jrish,  and  unlike  the  sprightly,  intuitive  French. 
They  have  not  the  enthusiasm  for  a  sentiment 
which  stirs  the  French  to  such  extreme  and  contra- 
dictory action ;  but  they  have  a  dogged  policy,  a 
predisposition  settled  in  interest  and  conviction, 
which  render  them  the  most  calculable  and  pa- 
tient, and  ultimately  the  most  irresistible,  force  in 
European  politics.  It  is  inspiration  to  an  army  of 
France,  that  forty  centuries  look  down  on  it  from  the 
pyramids ;  it  nerves  an  English  fleet  to  be  told,  in 
severe  phrase,  that  England  expects  every  man  to  do 


l8     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

his  duty.  What  tae  sentiments  are  to  one  nation, 
the  interests  of  life  are  to  the  other ;  and  if  there  is 
here  some  want  of  brilliancy,  there  is  none  of  sub- 
stantial good.  If  there  is  less  to  nourish  taste,  there 
is  more  to  feed  affection  ;  if  the  fire  does  not  flame  in 
every  wind,  it  is  well  raked  in,  and  keeps  warm  the 
national  hearth  from  century  to  century. 

The  cast  of  English  character  is  also  of  an  ex- 
ternal, objective  type,  rather  than  of  an  internal, 
subjective  one.  In  this  they  are  opposed  to  the 
Germans.  English  thought  issues  in  a  physical 
good,  a  social  gain,  a  practical  view,  with  one  foot 
upon  the  land  and  one  upon  the  sea ;  German 
thought  issues  in  a  theory,  a  speculation,  a  criti- 
cism, whose  locality  and  bearings  are  scarcely 
asked  for;  which  traverses  the  air,  or,  touching  the 
earth,  does  it  at  times  with  a  cloven  foot.  The 
fruits  of  the  German  mind  are  subtile  spirits,  that 
spring  out  of  great  heat  of  thought,  bent,  in  way- 
ward fashion,  on  any  or  no  mission ;  the  fruits  of 
the  English  mind  are  spirits  of  a  cold,  tame,  ant- 
serviceable  cast,  that,  at  the  worst,  can,  like  Caliban, 
»be  pinched  and  whipped  into  hard  work.  Thus  ideal- 
ism has  found  few  disciples  in  England,  and  the  en- 
tire drift  of  her  philosophy  has  been  materialistic. 
For  the  most  part  she  has  grounded  morals  in 
utility,  and  thus  made  her  theory  the  reflection  of 
her  practice.  Amid  all  her  plodding,  patient  virtues, 
she  has  rarely  had  a  bold,  brilliant  ideal,  plucking 
at  the  heart,  and  lifting  society  into  revolution. 
This  reflective,  external  cast  of  English  character 
has  colored  her  literature  and  history,  and,  united 


LATIN    INFLUENCE.  1 9 

(vith  her  insular,  protected  position,  has  given  rise  to 
a  social  and  civil  growth,  slow,  safe  and  continuous  ;  a 
growth  that  renders  her  institutions  the  most  instruc- 
tive and  interesting  in  the  record  of  modern  nations. 

Having  defined  the  national  character,  every- 
where effective  in  English  literature,  we  shall  con- 
sider the  foreign  influences  at  work  in  its  initiative 
period,  the  last  half  of  the  fourteenth  century.  In- 
directly, modern  Europe  is  deeply  indebted  to  the 
literature  and  cultivation  of  Greece  and  Rome. 
These  were  the  seeds  left  in  the  soil ;  and  when 
the  first  savage,  rugged  growth  of  barbarism  was 
cleared  away,  it  was  these  that  occupied  the  field, 
and  slowly  beautified  it.  The  Latin  influence  was 
wrought  into  Latin  Christianity,  and  spread,  there- 
fore, with  the  evangelization  of  the  Gothic  races. 
Moreover  these  races  came  in  their  conquests  every- 
where in  contact  with  the  laws  and  civilization  of 
Rome,  laws  which  slowly  resumed  sway  in  those 
provinces  in  which  they  had  become  indigenous. 
Latin  was  the  only  universal  language  of  western 
Europe  in  the  Middle  Ages ;  contained  the  works 
of  religion,  science,  philosophy,  the  products  of  the 
times ;  and  transmitted  also  the  classical  works  of 
earlier  Rome. 

Grecian  philosophy  and  poetry  were  more  re- 
mote and  indirect  in  their  influence.  The  logic 
of  Aristotle  gave  shape  to  the  scholastic  philosophy, 
but  in  a  secondary  form  as  it  had  found  transmis- 
sion through  Arabic,  Jewish,  Latin  mediums.  The 
direct  influence  of  classical  authors  on  English  lit- 
erature in   the  fourteenth  century  would  seem   to 


20    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

have  been  slight.  It  was  most  immediately  in- 
debted to  the  Latin  for  those  stories  of  earlier  times, 
which  reappear  so  often  in  the  works  of  Chaucer 
and  of  later  poets.  These  tales,  increased  by  those 
of  Oriental  origin,  and  by  others,  native  to  the  west 
of  Europe,  furnished  a  stock  in  trade  to  all  the 
poets.  They  were  transmitted  in  Latin  collections, 
and  also  transferred  to  the  vernacular  tongues  of 
the  West.  It  was  the  hold  they  had  secured  on  the 
popular  mind  by  constant  repetition,  and  the  semi- 
historical  character  they  bore  in  that  credulous  age, 
that  fitted  them  to  the  purposes  of  the  mediaeva' 
minstrelsy,  and  gave  them,  by  steady  accretion,  tha' 
flexible  form  and  controlling  influence  which  ren 
dered  them,  even  to  such  men  as  Chaucer  and 
Shakespeare,  a  constant  source  of  material.  These 
themes  were  already  in  possession  of  a  popular  in- 
terest denied  to  a  purely  literary  creation ;  and  the 
subjects  of  literature  had  thus  a  conventional  exist- 
ence and  force  to  which  all  readily  yielded.  The 
growth  of  history  and  invention  has  slowly  pushed 
aside  these  stories,  that  thus  presented  new  versions 
with  every  transfer,  though  even  in  our  day  we  oc- 
casionally return  to  them  with  fresh  zest. 

The  second  foreign  force,  which  was  especially 
operative  in  English  literature,  was  Italian  influence. 
As  was  to  be  expected,  Italy  was  the  first  division 
of  Europe,  after  the  barbaric  overflow,  to  regain 
the  arts  of  civilization.  In  commerce,  in  freedom, 
in  the  industrial  and  fine  arts,  in  literature,  and, 
later,  in  science,  she  took  the  lead,  a  position  she 
has  failed  to  maintain,  chiefly  through  political  di- 


ITALIAN    INFLUENCE.  21 

visions  and  ecclesiastical  tyranny.  No  real  liberty  of 
thought,  or  settled  polity,  has  found  foothold  on  her 
soil.  The  three  great  poets  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury were  Dante,  Petrarch,  and  Chaucer,  two  Ital- 
ian and  one  English.  The  first  of  these  in  time  was 
Dante.  He  was  much  less  influenced  than  the 
other  two  in  the  form  of  his  poetry  by  his  own 
period.  There  was  more  moral  elevation  in  his 
theme,  there  were  more  ethical  force  and  senti- 
ment in  his  execution,  and  he  aspired,  under  tbe 
guidance  of  Virgil,  to  the  breadth  and  dignity  of  d 
great  poet.  Next  came  Petrarch,  with  whom  Chau- 
cer may  have  met.  His  poetry  was  of  that  l}\ical 
cast  which  chiefly  affected  English  literature  later 
than  the  time  of  Chaucer.  Chaucer,  the  last  J  the 
three,  stands  in  more  immediate  sympathy  with 
Boccaccio,  whose  rehearsal  in  the  Decameron  of 
mediaeval  tales  has  won  for  him  his  chief  reputation. 
Some  of  these  Chaucer  has  borrowed,  or  both  have 
taken  them  from  common  sources.  We  may  well 
believe  that  Chaucer  was  quickened  by  his  Italian 
contemporaries,  without  being  very  directly  guided 
by  them. 

A  last  foreign  influence,  and  one  more  immedi- 
ate than  either  of  the  others,  were  the  romances 
and  fabliatix  of  the  Normans.  The  fabliaux  were 
of  a  popular  cast,  briefer  than  the  romances,  and 
more  diversified  in  their  subjects.  They  had  the 
ease,  humor,  and  variety  of  the  story,  and  were 
keyed  to  minor  occasions.  The  romances  were 
fitted  to  the  intellectual  palate  of  the  gentry,  were 
narrative  and  heroic,  and  required  for  their  rehearsal 


22     IHE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

a  more  select  occasion.  The  minstrels  of  northern 
and  southern  France  divided  the  sentunents  of  chiv- 
alry between  them.  The  valor  and  daring  of  the 
true  cavalier  were  magnified  by  the  Trouv^re  ;  while 
the  amatory  song  of  the  Troubadour  dwelt  on  the 
devotion  of  the  knight  to  his  lady-love.  Petrarch 
stood  in  much  the  same  relation  to  the  .lyric  poetry 
of  the  south  as  Chaucer  did  to  the  epic  verse  of  the 
north.  Each  form  degenerated,  though  the  degen- 
eracy of  erotic  song  is  ever  more  fatal  than  that  of 
heroic  verse.  The  sentiment  of  love  had,  at  best, 
in  chivalry  but  an  artificial  and  forced  development, 
and  was  ready  for  an  easy  decline  into  lascivious- 
ness.  The  courage  and  valor  of  chivalry  were  more 
simple,  sincere,  normal  to  the  condition  of  society  ; 
and  though  liable  to  become  hair-brained  and  ex- 
travagant in  the  exploits  undertaken,  yet  retained 
some  sound  and  wholesome  quality. 

The  romances  deserve  attention  because  of  the 
influence  they  exerted  on  our  Norman  ancestry,  and 
the  social  character  of  western  Europe ;  because  a 
first  and  chief  literary  service  to  which  the  early 
English  was  put  was  the  reception,  and  circulation, 
in  prose  and  metrical  form,  of  these  narratives,  as 
translated  from  the  French  ;  and  because  the  char- 
acter of  English  poetry  has  all  along  been  affected 
by  them,  and  that  too  strongly  in  its  later  periods. 
The  chief  subjects  of  these  romances  were  Arthur 
and  his  knights,  Charlemagne  and  his  followers. 
Later  were  added  warriors  of  the  Crusades,  and 
Grecian  heroes.  The  story  of  Arthur  and  his  knights 
of   the  round  table  offers  a  good  illustration  of  the 


I 


THE  MINSTREL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.   23 

growth  of  poetic  fiction,  its  steady  enlargement,  the 
transmission  of  its  resources,  the  currency  and  in- 
creasing interest  it  gives  to  its  inventions.  As  chiv- 
alry was  an  institution  of  rigid  and  overstrained 
sentiments,  this,  its  literary  side,  was  very  requisite 
to  it,  both  as  expressing  and  enforcing  its  views  of 
character,  as  stimulating  and  rewarding  its  heroes. 
The  minstrel  was  essential  to  the  knightly  pageant, 
as  giving  body,  form  and  circulation  to  those  fine- 
spun sentiments  of  life,  of  love,  and  of  loyalty ; 
making  them  felt  and  operative  in  the  rough,  law- 
less impulses  of  the  age.  Without  the  minstrel  to 
rehearse,  in  hours  of  leisure  and  festivity,  warlike 
achievements ;  and  make  positive,  frequent  and 
pungent  their  stimulus,  chivalry  could  scarcely 
have  gained  or  retained  the  influence  it  exerted.  It 
is  not  surprising  that  the  minstrel  became  a  sort  of 
sacred  character  with  claims  of  ingress  and  enter- 
tainment everywhere.  The  minstrel  put  the  expe- 
rience and  exploits  of  the  knight  in  their  most  trans- 
figured and  poetic  form,  and  rehearsed  them  to  his 
flattered  and  delighted  senses.  He  became  to  the 
knight  his  idealizing  spirit,  holding  before  him  a 
magic  mirror,  in  which  his  deeds  found  the  liveliest 
and  most  fascinating  reflection.  The  knight  thus 
learned  how  nobly  he  acted,  how  tenderly  he  felt, 
and  with  what  enchantment  he  was  invested. 
When  these  romances  became  more  extravagant, 
and  were,  moreover,  in  the  decay  of  chivalry,  in- 
creasingly divorced  from  the  actual  temper  and 
wants  of  men,  it  was  a  most  serviceable  task  which 
Cervantes  undertook  in  Don  Quixote,  that  of  turn 


24    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

ing  into  ridicule  the  notion  of  knight  errantry.  We 
shall  scarcely  understand  the  value  and  success  ot 
this  work,  except  as  we  see  in  it  a  last  blow  given 
to  a  proud  and  mischievous  sentiment  lingering  be- 
yond its  time. 

The  Normans,  famous  cavaliers,  haughty  and 
irritable,  had  embodied  their  social  feelings  in  this 
Romance  literature,  and  could  scarcely  unite  them- 
selves to  a  new  language  and  nationality  without  a 
transfer  of  these,  their  favorite  literary  recreations. 
Thus  the  fourteenth  century  beheld  a  large  repro- 
duction in  English  of  these  works,  so  essential  to  an 
adventurous  and  chivalrous  gentry.  Thus  were 
they  able  to  wont  themselves  to  their  new  home 
.with  a  reduced  sense  of  loss. 

We  have  now  spoken  of  the  essential  constit- 
uents of  literature,  urging  two  points,  that  the 
aesthetical  impulse,  or  the  element  of  form,  is  pre- 
dominant in  literature,  and  th«  more  so  as  long 
periods  are  taken  into  consideration  ;  and  that  a 
controlling  force,  giving  character  to  the  literary 
effort  of  any  period,  is  found  in  the  ethical  nature. 
This  is  the  light  which  imparts  depth  and  coloring  to 
our  spiritual  heavens,  and,  negatively  or  positively, 
determines  the  tone  of  the  passing  hour.  Wc 
have  spoken  of  the  sluggish  strength  of  the  Saxons, 
the  flexible  enterprise  of  the  Normans,  slowly  uniting 
to  form  English  character  on  a  type  of  unrivalled, 
patient,  practical  and  aspiring  sagacity.  We  then 
passed  to  the  foreign  influences  at  work  in  England 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  the  initiative  period  of  its 
literature.     In  common  with  western  Europe,  the 


THE    SUMMARY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE.        25 

germs  which  began  to  reclothe  the  earth,  when  the 
flood  of  barbaric  invasion  liad  passed  by,  and  the 
sedimentary  deposit  had  become  fixed,  were  found  in 
Christianity,  modified  and  sustained  by  Latin  civiU- 
zation.  The  classical  influence  on  popular  literature 
showed  itself  chiefly  in  a  fund  of  stories,  wrought 
and  rewrought  by  the  minstrelsy  of  different  nations, 
Italy,  as  at  the  very  centre  of  these  civilizing  forces, 
yielded  the  earliest  growth,  and  became  a  source  of 
art  and  literary  cultivation  to  the  Western  nations. 
A  third  force  felt  in  England  was  the  native  Norman 
poetry,  indigenous  to  the  times,  peculiarly  vigorous, 
and  closely  connected  with  their  chivalrous  charac- 
ter and  customs. 

Such  were  the  more  remote  fountains  that  fed 
the  streams  of  English  thought.  We  shall  next 
turn  to  those  which  at  home  more  directly  and 
copiously  maintained  it.  Many  are  the  forces,  near 
at  hand  and  afar  off,  that  are  at  work  in  national 
character  and  national  life.  If  the  future  lies  an 
open  field  before  us,  we  march  to  take  possession  of 
it  with  our  flocks  and  herds  and  household  stufl". 
The  good  and  the  evil  travel  on  together,  and  renew 
their  conflict  at  each  successive  stage.  We  have 
sketched  the  leading  conditions  under  which  the 
English  nation,  newly  compacted  in  its  elements, 
occupied  the  fourteenth  century,  and  made  ready 
to  work  out  the  national  history.  As  this  evolves 
itself,  we  shall  see  the  old  taking  up  the  new,  and 
the  new  uniting  itself  to  the  old,  with  the  organic 
freedom  of  forces,  that  hold  within  themselves  their 
own  law  of  life. 


LECTURE   II. 

Home  Influences  affecting  English  Literature  in  the  Fourteenth 
Century. — Religious  Life. — Social  Life. — Language. — Prevalent 
Literature. 

We  have  now  to  speak  of  those  home  or  do- 
mestic influences  which  in  England  gathered  about 
and  helped  to  shape  the  literature  of  the  fourteenth 
century. 

They  drop  into  four  classes ;  religious  or  ethical 
forces,  social  forces,  language,  and  the  directions  or 
divisions  of  literature.  These  lie  like  concentric 
circles  around  the  germinant  points  of  growth,  each 
succeeding  one  approaching  more  nearly,  and  af- 
fecting more  definitely,  the  literary  product  of  the 
time ;  yet  falling  off  in  the  scope  and  breadth  of  its 
influence. 

The  outer,  or  ethical  circle,  when  it  fails  to  de- 
termine the  immediate  form  and  spirit  of  a  pro- 
duction, constitutes  none  the  less  the  atmospherei 
the  climate,  under  which  it  grows  up,  and  thus  de- 
cides the  vigor  of  its  life.  Ethical  influences  so 
pervade  our  national  life,  that,  positively  or  nega- 
tively, they  set  limits  to  all  that  is  said  or  done  in  it. 
Like  the  rarity  or  density  of  the  air,  they  settle  the 
flight  that  is  open  to  a  given  stroke  of  wing,  how 
high  it  shall  bear  the  spirit  upward. 

In  the  fourteenth  century,  religion  inter-pene- 
trated society,  visibly  touching  and  modifying  it  at 

(26) 


THK    RELIGION    OF    ENGLISH    LITEKATUKE.        2"] 

all  points.  Its  apparent  power  was  much  greater 
than  now,  its  actual  power  much  less.  In  propor- 
tion as  faith  forsakes  the  heart,  and  therefore  ceases 
to  rule  in  its  own  hidden  and  spiritual  realm,  does 
it  strive,  by  compensation,  in  an  external,  solemn 
and  ceremonial  way,  to  show  its  presence,  and  se- 
cure authority  over  a  portion  of  the  actions  of  men. 
When  men  make  a  compromise  with  religion,  with- 
holding a  part  and  giving  a  part,  their  religious  acts 
become  at  once  exacting  in  form  and  ostentatious 
in  fulfilment.  They  are  the  purchase-money,  the 
exemption  payment,  good  only  as  they  are  clearly 
and  abundantly  certified.  Forms  and  superstitions 
are  surface  eruptions ;  the  blood  clearing  itself  by 
cutaneous  disease.  The  national  life,  failing  to 
absorb  and  healthily  to  use  the  spiritual  element, 
casts  it  to  the  surface  in  fears,  credulities,  and 
frivolous  observances. 

In  this  and  adjunct  centuries,  court,  castle, 
cloister  and  cottage  were  equally  infested  with  re- 
ligion, and  almost  equally  destitute  of  it.  The  cor- 
ruption of  the  theory  and  practice  of  religion,  was 
preparing  the  way  for  the  reformation.  The  sources 
of  religious  authority  had  become  the  sources  of 
evil,  and  virtue  had  been  compelled  to  find  a  refuge 
in  the  individual  heart  alone.  This  is  the  descrip- 
tion of  Avignon  while  the  seat  of  the  papacy,  as 
given  by  Petrarch.  "  You  imagine  that  the  city  of 
Avignon  is  the  same  now  that  it  was  when  you  re- 
sided in  it ;  it  is  very  different.  It  was  then,  it  is 
true,  the  worst  and  vilest  place  on  earth,  but  it  has 
now  become  a  terrestrial  hell,  a  residence  of  fiends 


28     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

and  devils,  a  receptacle  of  all  that  is  most  wicked 
and  abominable.  In  this  city  there  is  no  piety,  no 
reverence  or  fear  of  God,  no  faith  or  charity,  noth- 
ing that  is  holy,  just,  equitable  or  himiane.  Why 
should  I  speak  of  truth  when  not  only  the  houses, 
palaces,  courts,  churches  and  the  thrones  of  popes 
and  cardinals,  but  the  very  earth  and  air  seem  to 
teem  with  lies.  Good  men  have  of  late  been  treated 
with  so  much  contempt  and  scorn,  that  there  is  not 
one  left  amongst  them  to  be  an  object  of  their 
laughter."  * 

This  corruption  was  unequal  in  different  branch- 
es of  the  church.  The  higher  clergy  had  more  in- 
centives to  vice  than  the  inferior  clergy,  and  among 
these  were  to  be  found  many  devout  men.  The 
mendicant  orders  also,  existing  under  a  peculiarly 
distorted  and  vagrant  form  of  life,  became  cor- 
respondingly vicious  and  worthless.  In  the  gallery 
of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  we  have  portraits  of  vari- 
ous religious  personages.     Let  us  glance  at  them. 

First,  there  is  a  well-to-do  monk,  with  gown 
lined  with  the  finest  fur,  a  lover  of  good  horses  and 
good  living,  and  fond  of  the  chase. 

Ilis  hed  was  balled,  and  shone  as  any  glass, 
And  eke  his  face,  as  it  hadde  ben  anoint, 
lie  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  point. 
His  eyen  stepe,  and  rolling  in  his  head, 

He  was  not  pale  as  a  forjiined  gost, 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  rost. 

He  cares  little  about  the  rules  of  his  order,  and 
is  bent  on  having  a  good  time. 

*  Henry's  "  History  of  Great  Britain,"  vol.  viii.  p.  366. 


FRIAR — CLERK PARSON.  29 

This  ilke  monk  lette  oltle  thinges  pace. 
And  held  after  the  newe  world  the  trace. 
He  yave  not  of  the  text  a  pulled  hen, 
That  saith,  that  hunters  ben  not  holy  men  : 

Next  comes  a  friar,  a  mendicant,  full  of  dalliance 
and  fair  language. 

He  was  an  esy  man  to  give  penance, 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitance : 

Therto  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 
And  knew  wel  the  tavernes  in  every  toun. 
And  every  hosteler  and  gay  tapstere. 

He  shirked  beggars,  was  familiar  with  prosper- 
ous farmers,  pleased  the  housewives,  and  had  more 
skill  than  any  one  in  his  cloister  in  securing,  by 
means  of  soft,  lisping  English,  a  merry  song,  a 
twinkling  eye,  even  from  the  poorest  widow,  a  far- 
thing before  he  left. 

Then  comes  the  clerk  of  Oxford,  as  yet  without 
a  benefice. 

As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake. 
And  he  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake. 

He  had  in  him  the  spirit  of  scholarship,  how- 
ever, and  preferred  to  have  at  his  bed's  head,  twenty 
books  of  Aristotle  than  rich  robes  or  fiddle. 

Of  studie  toke  he  moste  cure  and  hede, 
Not  a  word  spake  he  more  than  was  nede; 
And  that  was  said  in  forme  and  reverence, 
And  short  and  quike,  and  ful  of  high  sentence. 

On  the  parish  parson,  Chaucer  bestows  a  rich 
dowry  of  graces.  He  is  learned,  devout,  diligent, 
self-denying ;  watching  over  his  flock  with  tender- 
ness, and   guiding   them   equally  by  example    and 


30    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

precept.     He  withholds  nothing  necessary  to  com- 
plete the  character  of  a  faithful  and  loving  teacher. 

That  Christes  gospel  trewely  vvolde  preche, 

•  ««***«• 

A  better  preest  I  trowe  that  nowher  non  is, 
lie  waited  after  no  pompe  ne  reverence, 
Ne  maked  him  no  spiced  conscience, 
But  Christes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve. 
He  taught,  but  first  he  fohved  it  himselve. 

Quite  another  person  is  the  sompnour,  or  sum- 
moner,  whose  office  it  was  to  call  any  person  who 
had  broken  the  laws  of  Holy  Church.  He  had 
a  fire-red  face,  narrow  eyes,  scald  brows,  a  beard 
thin  and  scurvy,  and  warts  and  freckles,  that  no 
ointment  could  mollify.  He  liked  leeks,  onions  and 
strong  wine,  and  when  tipsy,  shouted  his  law  Latin 
as  one  mad.  He  was  a  terror  to  children,  com- 
muted the  sentences  of  the  arch-deacon  for  a  fine, 
and  sought  everywhere  his  vicious  and  lecherous 
pleasures,  yielding  like  indulgences  to  others  on 
terms  of  a  bribe. 

One  other  religious  character  appears  in  the 
pardoner.  His  yellow  hair  flowed  loosely  down  his 
shoulders. 

His  wallet  lay  beforne  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful  of  pardon  come  from  Rome  al  hote, 

•  «*****♦ 
And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones, 

ivhich  he  sold  as  those  of  saints. 

But  with  these  relikes,  whanne  that  he  fond 
A  poure  persone  dwelling  up  on  lond. 
Upon  a  day,  he  gat  him  more  moneie 
Than  that  the  persone  gat  in  mnnethes  tweie. 


CONTRADICTIONS    OF    CHARACTER.  3 1 

He  performed  his  services  in  a  loud  command- 
ing voice,  denounced  habitually  the  love  of  money 
as  the  root  of  all  evil,  produced  his  bulls  from  Rome, 
spoke  a  few  words  in  Latin  to  season  his  discourse, 
and  admonished  his  hearers, 

That  no  man  be  so  bold,  ne  preest  ne  clerk, 
Me  to  disturbe  of  Christes  holy  werk. 

He  then  produced  his  relics,  informed  the  rustics  of 
the  various  cures  they  would  work  on  man  and 
beast,  and  their  power  to  remove  jealousy.  He 
unblushingly  announces,  to  his  fellow-travellers,  his 
temper  of  mind. 

For  I  wol  preche  and  beg  in  sondry  londes, 
I  wol  not  do  no  labour  with  min  hondes, 
Ne  niake  baskettes  for  to  live  therby. 
Because  I  wol  not  beggen  idelly, 
I  wol  non  of  the  apostles  contrefete : 
I  wol  have  money,  wolle,  chese  and  whete, 
Al  were  it  yeven  of  the  pourest  page. 
Or  of  the  pourest  widewe  in  a  village : 
Al  shulde  hire  children  sterven  for  famine. 

Such  are  the  strong  contradictions  of  character 
that  the  religious  world  presented  in  the  time  oi 
Chaucer,  and  such  the  preponderance  of  evil. 
Over  against  the  devout  parson,  appear  the  sleek, 
luxurious,  self-indulgent  monk,  with  strong  physical 
appetites  ;  the  meddlesome  friar,  full  of  low  cun- 
ning, importunate  and  unscrupulous  ;  the  summoner, 
or  go-between  in  ecclesiastical  courts,  persecuting 
the  innocent,  sheltering  offenders,  commuting  pen- 
alties, loathsome  in  the  personal  fruits  of  sin,  and 
full  of  effrontery;  the  pardoner,  bent  on  gain, 
plausible    in    appearance,    sacrilegious    in    speech, 


32     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

unconscientious  in  method,  with  a  joint  stock  of 
falsehood  and  cunning,  working  as  an  inexhaustible 
vein  of  wealth,  the  ignorance  and  superstition  of 
the  lower  classes  ;  and  a  canon,  introduced  later, 
who  is  deeply  involved  in  the  delusions  and  frauds 
of  alchemy. 

There  are  in  this  picture  of  the  religious  life  of 
the  times,  the  sharpest  contradictions  and  the 
highest  irritations.  These  are  of  two  kinds,  both 
of  which  strongly  affected  the  literature  of  the  cen- 
tury ;  the  irritation  of  the  ethical  sense  of  a  few,  the 
irritation  of  the  common-sense  of  many.  The  one 
result  finds  representation  in  Wiclifife,  the  other  in 
Chaucer.  The  spirit  of  Christianity  has  never  been 
so  smothered  under  those  rank  overgrowths  of  su- 
perstition that  have  shot  above  it,  as  not,  from  time 
to  time,  to  make  new  points  of  disclosure.  This 
has  never  been  merely  a  fallen  and  decaying  trunk, 
nourishing  lichen,  moss  and  fern,  but  has  some- 
where sent  up  a  fresh  growth,  wherewith  to  replace 
and  continue  the  primitive  stock.  Early  and  signif- 
icant among  those  movements  of  sturdy  resistance, 
which  at  length  resulted  in  the  Reformation,  was 
that  of  Wicliffe,  a  rejection  on  moral  grounds  of 
that  perverted,  religious  life  expressed  in  the  eccle- 
siasticism  of  the  time.  Christianity  indicates  its 
independent,  spiritual  power,  shows  itself  to  be 
rooted  in  the  constitution  of  man  and  the  world,  by 
the  vigorous  way  in  which  it  has  ever  opened  a  new 
conflict  within  its  own  household,  rejected  the  devel- 
opments which  oppressing,  perverting  circumstances 
have  fastened  upon  it,  and,  returning  to  initial  prin- 


THE    IRRITATION    OCCASIONED.  33 

ciples,  has  once  more  forced  its  way  outward  in  re- 
newed, regenerated  activity.  One  of  the  purest  and 
most  influential  of  these  efforts  of  restoration  found 
its  origin  in  this  antagonism  of  the  religious  life  of 
England. 

The  second  irritation  was  more  general,  but  less 
powerful  than  this  of  the  rehgious  sense.  It  sprang 
from  the  exacting,  dishonest  and  openly  corrupt  form 
which  religious  action  had  assumed.  It  rejected 
the  monk,  not  because  he  was  a  monk,  but  because 
he  despised  and  laughed  at  the  rules  of  his  order. 
It  rejected  the  friar,  not  because  he  imposed  con- 
fession and  penance,  but  because  he  did  it  in  his  own 
behoof;  the  summoner,  not  as  an  officer  of  justice, 
but  for  his  ribaldry  and  extortion  ;  and  the  seller  of 
indulgences,  not  on  account  of  his  traffic,  but  be- 
cause he  dealt  in  sham  relics. 

And  thus  with  fained  flattering  and  japes, 
He  made  the  persone  and  the  peple,  his  apes. 

The  summoner  and  mendicant  friar  were  espe- 
cially distasteful  to  the  English.  They  each,  in  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  expose  the  misdeeds  of  the  other, 
and,  in  a  conflict  of  mutual  abuse,  are  drawn  out 
and  set  apart  for  our  equal  and  hearty  detestation. 
They  both  sinned  against  strong  English  feelings, 
the  one  against  fair  dealing,  and  honesty  between 
man  and  man  ;  and  the  other  against  the  privacy  and 
purity  of  the  home.  The  mendicant  was  held  in 
detestation  as  an  unmanly,  impertinent  beggar,  who 
pretended  to  pay  for  his  keep  and  clothing  in 
prayers,  and  then  shirked  even  this  return.  His 
habitual  and  unforgiven  sin  was  that, 
2* 


34    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 
In  every  hous  he  gan  to  pore  and  prie, 

and  thus  left  no  place  free  from  his  meddling  and 
mischief,  his  sales  and  pious  pilfer. 

The  offence  of  the  summoner,  though  less  irri- 
tating and  constant,  was  not  less  grave.  In  the 
tales  to  which  reference  has  been  made,  one  of  the 
class  serves  a  false  notice  on  a  widow,  and  then 
professes  himself  willing  to  hush  up  the  matter  for 
twelve  pence.  Failing  of  this,  he  lays  claim  to  her 
new  pan.  The  upshot  is,  that  the  devil,  who  has 
been  the  travelling  companion  in  disguise  of  the 
summoner,  puts  in  an  appearance,  and  claims  his 
own  in  this  wise, 

Now  brother,  quod  the  devil,  be  not  wroth; 
Thy  body  and  this  panne  ben  min  by  right, 
Thou  shalt  with  me  to  helle  yet  to-night. 
Wher  thou  shalt  knowen  of  our  privatee 
More  than  a  maister  of  divinitee. 

While,  therefore,  these  pertinacious,  multiplied, 
omnipresent  abuses  of  the  religious  impulse  found 
a  strong  support  in  the  ignorance  and  superstition 
of  the  masses,  they  were  also  at  war  with  stubborn 
English  instincts,  a  love  of  home,  industry  and 
justice ;  and  were  a  perpetual  irritant  to  the  com- 
mon-sense and  good-will  of  the  more  intelligent. 
The  religious  influence  of  the  time,  therefore,  was 
one  of  general  restlessness,  provoking  satire  and 
stern  attack. 

The  social  phase  of  life,  the  second  circle  of 
force  that  gathered  about  our  literature,  was  of  an 
equally  declared  and  extreme  cast.  Its  prevailing 
spirit  was    that  of    chivalry.      However,    the    poet 


CHIVALRY.  35 

may  idealize  this  institution,  the  philanthropist  can 
only  regard  it  as  casting  a  slight  glow  over  a  very 
dark  and  discouraging  period.  It  grew  out  of 
incessant  warfare,  and  this  under  the  unendurable 
form  of  public  and  private  feud,  of  contagious, 
universal  and  interminable  strife  ;  a  state  of  things 
which  a  lingering  sentiment  of  humanity  sought 
feebly  to  remedy  by  the  Truce  of  God,  rescuing, 
under  the  sanction  of  religious  sentiments,  a  portion 
of  each  week  from  acts  of  violence.  The  mailed 
knight  fills  the  historic,  as  well  as  the  poetic,  page ; 
and  the  gentry  of  France,  cutting  down  and  riding 
over  their  own  foot-soldiers  at  the  battle  of  Cressy, 
the  more  quickly  to  reach  the  enemy,  reveals  the 
spirit  of  the  age.  The  soldier  came  to  receive 
much  larger  pay  than  the  artisan ;  and  gentility 
honored  or  won  its  rank  in  the  tournament  and  on 
the  battle-field.  The  literature,  like  the  life  of  the 
time,  was  imbued  with  an  extravagant  martial  spirit. 
A  large  amount  of  composition  in  Western  Europe 
gave  itself  to  inflaming  the  sentiments  of  chivalry, 
and  resulted  in  incalculable  mischief,  so  far  as  all 
peaceful  and  just  life  was  concerned. 

No  permanent,  civil,  commercial  or  social  good 
could  grow  out  of  this  martial  mania,  or  bless  a 
people  cursed  by  it.  The  fictions  of  poetry  may 
make  a  glowing  dream  of  it,  but  the  facts  of  his- 
tory can  only  show  it  to  have  been  a  waking,  wide- 
spread horror ;  a  perpetual  disruption  of  society,  and 
overthrow  of  its  peaceful  virtues  and  fruitful  arts. 

The  courtly  qualities  into  which  chivalry  was 
baptized,  were   courage,  loyalty,  courtesy,   munifi- 


36    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

cence.  Its  sentiment  was  honor ;  its  reward,  love 
Exalted  as  these  incentives  may  seem,  they  were 
so  divorced  from  sober,  substantial,  retiring  virtues  ; 
so  overleaped  the  bounds  of  common-sense  and 
common  honesty,  as  often  to  make  their  possessors 
more  implacable  and  infuriate  than  simple,  native 
savageness  would  have  rendered  them.  The  honor 
of  knights  was  one  that  wrought  irritation  among 
themselves,  and  contempt  toward  all  others ;  their 
love  and  courtesy  were  fanciful,  exaggerated  senti- 
ments, ready  to  overstep  the  limits  of  marital  obliga- 
tion and  domestic  virtue.  Their  courage  and  loyalty 
were  merely  the  breath  of  praise,  with  which  they 
blew  their  own  passions  into  an  intolerable  heat ; 
and  their  munificence,  the  free,  careless  hand  which 
goes  with  rapine  and  tyranny.  Such  virtues,  like 
polished  armor,  may  dazzle  the  vagrant  eye,  but  so 
far  as  they  conceal,  adorn  and  quicken  the  demoni- 
ac spirit  of  war,  they  are  all  the  worse  for  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  disguise.  Prodigal  splendor,  thought- 
less courage,  and  that  magnanimity  which,  punctili- 
ous to  equals,  makes  little  of  the  safety  and  the 
happiness  and  the  rights  of  inferiors  that  chance  tc 
lie  in  its  path,  have  not  much  to  commend  them 
to  humanity.  They  are  born  of  selfishness  and  tyr- 
anny, and,  therefore,  in  their  ultimate  elements 
are  most  mean  and  base  and  worthless. 

We  are  wont  to  think  that  women  were  especial- 
ly indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  chivalry,  and  this,  in 
a  measure,  is  true,  if  we  consider  the  violence  and 
rude  passion  of  the  times.  Man  as  against  man, 
enforced  certain  restraints    under  this    sentiment 


CHIVALROUS    SENTIMENT.  37 

It  was  a  reduction  and  softening  down  of  a  rough 
and  lawless  period.  Yet  it,  itself,  often  rose  to  a 
foolish  fanaticism,  or  sank  to  gross  impurity.  It 
had  its  "  love  fraternities,"  "  love  courts,"  leading  to 
absurdities  only  less  than  those  of  the  religious  sen- 
timent; and  instituting  obligations  quite  in  over- 
sight of  the  duties  of  domestic  life.  If  we  were  to 
go  back  to  the  darkness  of  those  dark  days,  we 
might  be  glad  to  cheer  it  with  the  light  of  chivalry, 
but  fortunately  we  are  rid  of  both. 

Yet  if  men  are  to  be  brutish,  we  would  certainly 
desire  that  they  might  also  be  courageous  ;  if  they 
are  to  be  proud,  we  would  wish  to  temper  pride 
with  courtesy ;  if  they  are  to  fight,  it  is  better  they 
should  do  it  in  fellowship,  for  this  is  partial  peace  ; 
if  they  are  to  revel,  that  their  indulgences  should 
come  with  social  sentiments  and  jollity.  Chivalry 
was  the  deceptive  bloom  of  unripe  fruit ;  those  who 
set  their  teeth  in  it,  found  it  sharp  and  indigestible. 
Chivalry  gave  a  tint  of  amethyst  to  a  bitter  winter's 
day.  Those  who  looked  out  from  castle  windows, 
found  their  delight  in  it,  but  God's  poor  were  frozen 
none  the  less.  Later,  as  the  expression  of  a  sweet 
and  gentle  heart,  as  the  dream  of  poetry,  it  has  be- 
come quite  another  thing,  a  prodigality  of  nature 
that  at  once  satisfies  the  mind  and  feeds  the  senses. 

Pride,  in  a  violent  and  offensive  form,  is  closely 
connected  with  the  ascendancy  of  the  military 
spirit. 

Says  Froissart :  "  When  I  was  at  Bordeaux,  a 
little  before  the  departure  of  the  Prince  of  Wales 
on  his  expedition  into  Spain,  I  observed  that  the 


^S     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

English  were  so  proud  and  haughty,  that  they  could 
not  behave  to  the  people  of  other  nations  with  any 
appearance  of  civility." 

Says  William  of  Malmsbury  :  "  Every  one  swell- 
ing with  pride  and  rancor  scorns  to  cast  a  look  on 
his  inferiors,  disclaims  his  equals,  and  proudly 
rivals  his  superiors."  A  Venetian  traveller  gives 
this  description  of  the  English  :  "  They  think  that 
there  are  no  other  men  than  themselves,  and  no 
other  world  but  England  ;  and  whenever  they  see  a 
handsome  foreigner,  they  say  that  he  looks  like  an 
Englishman."  This  pride,  enhanced,  doubtless,  by 
the  superiority  of  the  Norman  to  the  Saxon,  was 
also  greatly  strengthened  by  the  personal  superior- 
ity of  the  knight,  encased  in  armor,  to  soldiers  of 
inferior  grade.  To  the  inevitable  arrogance  of  mil- 
itary authority,  was  thus  added  almost  complete 
personal  impunity.  The  musket-ball,  when  it  came, 
was  a  great  leveller,  and  powder  has  been  the  most 
democratic  of  inventions.  Modern  society,  though 
in  fact  widening  the  real  differences  in  character 
and  advantages  between  the  high  and  low,  has 
greatly  reduced  the  pride  that  attends  upon  these 
distinctions.  The  knight,  scarcely  superior  to  his 
followers  in  cultivation,  was  thrown  by  the  conditions 
of  his  life  on  terms  of  familiar  intercourse,  almost 
intimacy,  with  them.  With  all  his  haughtiness,  he 
mingled  habitually  with  his  servants,  and  accepted 
close  personal  service  from  them.  He  combined,  in 
one  character,  the  arrogant  leader  and  jovial  com- 
panion, drawing  near  to  his  retainers  in  tastes  and 
Bentiments,  while  he  stood  apart  from  them  in  rank. 


I 


RELATION  OF  LEADER  AND  RETAINER.     39 

Thus  the  rough  leader  both  swears  with  and  swears 
at  his  comrades. 

The  luxury  of  the  nobility  showed  itself  chiefly 
in  food  and  dress.  Their  castles,  constructed  for 
defense,  were,  in  most  cases,  but  narrow  and  cheer- 
less abodes.  Their  feasts  were  of  a  hearty  and 
rollicking,  rather  than  of  a  refined  and  luxurious, 
character.  Sixty  fat  oxen  are  mentioned  as  an 
item  in  one  of  them.  A  love  of  hospitality  early 
belonged  to  the  English.  Says  the  same  Italian 
traveller,  "  They  think  that  no  greater  honor  can  be 
conferred  or  received,  than  to  invite  others  to  eat 
with  them  ;  and  they  would  sooner  give  five  or  six 
ducats  to  provide  an  entertainment  for  a  person, 
than  a  groat  to  assist  him  in  any  distress."  *  Over 
against  this  luxury  of  the  few,  we  have  to  put  very 
general  poverty  and  a  low  grade  of  life,  especially  in 
the  country  and  villages.  The  laws  were  very 
inadequately  administered,  and  property  was  inse- 
cure. The  peasantry  in  their  houses  of  "  mud  and 
sticks  "  were  often  at  the  mercy  of  depredators,  and 
agriculture  was  greatly  depressed.  This  is  shown 
by  the  frequent  and  severe  famines,  and  the  various 
forms  of  pestilence,  the  plague,  the  sweating  sick- 
ness, the  black  tongue,  that  swept  through  the  coun- 
try, at  times  almost  depopulating  it.  Discourage- 
ment, poverty  and  extreme  ignorance  hovered  over 
the  masses.  Debased  by  superstition,  and  familiar 
with  injury,  they  had  too  little  to  hope  for,  and  too 
little  to  lose,  to  offer  much  resistance.  In  the  open 
country,  so  weak  were  the  laws,  there  was  little  pro- 

*  Knight's  "  History  of  England,"  vol.  ii.  p.  254. 


40    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

tection  for  industry,  and  hence  little  motive  to  it. 
The  home  of  the  peasant  was  open  to  plunder,  with- 
out hope  of  redress.  I'he  coat  of  arms  of  one  of 
these  marauders  bore  this  inscription,  "  I  am  Cap- 
tain Warner,  commander  of  a  troop  of  robbers,  an 
enemy  to  God,  without  pity  and  without  mercy."* 
In  the  cities,  especially  in  London,  the  middle 
classes  first  learned  their  power,  and  by  commerce 
and  the  arts  climbed  into  strength.  The  domestic 
Wrtues  had  yet  secured  but  a  slight  foothold,  and 
the  homes  of  the  nobles  with  their  heavy,  cheerless 
walls,  and  large  dining-halls,  pushed  into  the  fore- 
ground the  ideas  of  feasting  and  defense.  War  stood 
on  the  right  side,  and  riot  on  the  left. 

The  character  of  woman  always  goes  far  to  de- 
fine social  influences,  as  she,  above  all,  is  subject  to 
them,  and  they  in  turn  are,  in  large  part,  in  her 
keeping.  There  are  two  types  of  female  character 
that  appear  in  Chaucer,  the  fruits,  on  opposite  sides, 
of  the  spirit  of  the  age.  The  first  is  represented  by 
the  prioress,  simple,  pleasing,  and  dainty,  winning 
in  manners,  gentle  and  pitiful  in  disposition. 

"  At  mete  was  she  wel  ytaughte  withalle  ; 
She  lette  no  morsel  from  hire  hppes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe. 
Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 
Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest." 

Pretty  and  agreeable  accomplishments  were 
these,  when  one  without  forks  shared  his  trencher 
with  his  companion.  Forks,  needful  instruments  as 
they  are  of  refinement,  seem  to  have  fallen  earlier  to 

*  Henry's  History,  vol.  viii.  p.  386. 


FEMALE    CHARACTER.  41 

the  Fiji  than  to  Englishmen.  It  is  probable, 
therefore,  that  human  flesh  was  one  of  the  first  mor- 
sels held  in  dainty  contemplation  at  a  fork's  end.* 

Quite  opposite  to  her,  is  the  type  seen  in  the 
wife  of  Bath,  skilled  in  weaving  and  domestic 
manufacture,  bold  in  bearing,  and,  withal,  a  woman 
of  large  travel. 

"  Thrice  had  she  been  at  Jerusalem."  She  was 
loud  in  laughter  and  in  talk. 

"  Bold  was  hire  face,  and  fayre  and  rede  of  hew. 
Housbondes  at  the  chirche  dore  had  she  had  five." 

Jaunty,  thrifty,  and  fearless,  careful  neither  in 
speech  nor  act,  she  made  herself  formidable  either 
as  a  spouse  or  a  companion.  Her  latest  and  best 
conjugal  adjustment  was  this : 

"  And  whan  that  I  had  getten  unto  me 
By  maistrie  all  the  soverainetee, 
And  that  he  sayd,  min  oweu  trewe  wif, 
Do  as  thee  list,  the  ternie  of  all  thy  lif, 
Kepe  thin  honour,  and  kepe  eke  min  estat ; 
After  that  day  we  never  had  debat." 

A  like  and  stronger  contrast  is  there  between 
such  a  character  as  Grisilde  and  the  hostess  of 
the  Tabard  ;  the  one  softening  the  harsh,  extreme 
tyranny  of  her  lord  by  patient  submission  and  un- 
conquerable affection  ;  the  other  striving  perpetually 
to  goad  and  exasperate  her  husband  into  an  ill- 
nature  equal  to  her  own. 

"  By  Goddes  bones,  whan  I  bete  my  knaves, 
She  bringeth  me  the  grete  clobbed  staves, 
And  cryeth  ;  slee  the  dogges  everich  on, 
And  breke  hem  bothe  bak  and  every  bon." 

*  Pre- Historic  Times,  p.  454. 


42     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

These  contrasts  belong  to  a  period  of  rude 
domination,  where  the  only  choice  for  woman  lay 
between  the  extremes  of  submission  and  resistance ; 
between  coarse  strength,  lawless,  unlovely  and  in- 
vulnerable force  ;  and  meek  endurance,  the  persua- 
sion of  patience,  the  gentle,  admirable  graces  of 
weakness.  One  may  love  these  virtues,  though 
he  hates  the  violence  that  evokes  them.  English 
society  in  the  time  of  Chaucer  was  still  in  that 
savage  state  in  which  woman  must  either  shy  and 
dodge  the  brutality  about  her,  making  such  a  show 
as  she  was  able  of  the  mild  and  submissive  traits 
of  character ;  or,  bursting  the  bonds  of  slavery 
and  nature  at  once,  become  formidable  by  becom- 
ing unendurable,  setting  up  her  safeguards  in 
the  violence  of  vituperation.  Thus  we  have  the 
shrew ;  a  character  so  familiar  in  the  early  drama. 
The  virtues  and  vices  of  bondage  partake  alike  of 
its  taint. 

The  church  sinned  against  woman  in  two  re- 
spects. While  it  made  of  marriage  a  sacrament, 
it,  nevertheless,  by  insisting  on  the  celibacy  of  the 
clergy,  and  constructing  its  religious  orders  on  the 
same  principle,  gave  an  inferior,  an  impure  char- 
acter to  this  relation,  especially  fitted  to  reflect 
discredit  upon  woman.  Far  worse  than  this :  by 
the  licentiousness  of  its  chosen  servants  it  invaded 
the  household,  and  established,  as  vicious  connec- 
tions, those  relations  which  it  scorned  to  accept  in 
good  faith.  Thus  the  religious  corps  became  as 
numerous,  as  searching,  and  as  unclean  as  the  frogs 
of  Egypt,  which  penetrated  into  all  quarters,  into 


LICENTIOUSNESS    OF    LANGUAGE.  43 

the  ovens  and  kneading-troughs,  leaving  their  filthy 
trail  wherever  they  went.  Henry,  l^ishop  of  Liege, 
could  unblushingly  boast  the  birth  of  twenty-two 
children  in  fourteen  years. 

Chaucer  says,  that  many  hundred  years  ago, 
England  was  full  of  fairies  and  elfs,  but  now  every 
field  and  every  stream  so  swarms  with  friars,  thick 
as  motes  in  a  sunbeam,  that  the  jolly  crew  have 
altogether  fled.  He  delivers  the  last  telling  blow 
of  his  irony  in  the  words  : 

"  Women  may  now  go  safely  up  and  doun, 
In  every  bush,  and  under  every  tree, 
Ther  is  non  other  incubus  but  he. 
And  he  ne  will  don  hem  no  dishonour." 

Such  is  the  gain  the  poetic  satire  tosses  to  view 
the  presence  of  scrupulous,  meek-eyed  friars,  in 
the  place  of  wanton,  mischief-making  fairies,  in  the 
groves  and  along  the  by-paths. 

One  of  the  most  undeniable  social  features  of 
the  time,  showing  their  half-barbaric  cast,  was  that 
sensuality  of  language  which  is  the  cheap  dye  of 
vulgar  wit.  The  taint  of  it  is  especially  strong  in 
Chaucer,  frequently  quite  overpowering  the  poetic 
aroma.  One  wonders  what  evil  beast  has  strayec 
among  these  flowers.  I  confess  to  a  certain  shame 
in  speaking  of  Chaucer  to  the  healthy  and  pure,  so 
far  is  he  from  wholesome  companionship.  As  mii- 
rored  in  the  Canterbury  Tales,  English  speech  was 
at  once  gross  and  licentious.  The  offence  is  pal- 
pable to  the  very  senses,  and  not  to  the  moral 
instincts  simply.  Startled  by  the  sudden  burden 
of  the  air,  we  hasten  on,  nor  care  to  know  all  the 


44    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

grounds  of  the  wrong  done  us.  Distance  is  qui 
instant  and  only  remedy.  Those  superior  instincts 
of  our  nature,  by  which  we  lift  the  eye  and  thought 
from  the  animal  portions  and  gross  functions  of 
our  being,  by  which  we  move  amid  Contamination 
as  light  unstained  of  evil  things,  were  all  for- 
gotten ;  and  men,  as  swine,  rooted  for  food  wh^re 
food  chanced  to  be.  There  is  no  apology  for  this ; 
it  is  the  personal  impurity,  the  filth  unwashed  away, 
that  remain  from  a  savage  life.  There  is  only  one 
point  of  reduction  we  have  to  make.  Language, 
before  it  is  cleansed  of  a  given  license,  does  not, 
to  those  who  then  use  it,  bring  the  same  gross 
imagery  and  rank  offence,  that  it  necessarily  does 
to  those,  who,  from  an  advanced  position,  for  a  mo- 
ment, return  to  it.  Though  it  is  not  true,  that  lan- 
guage and  life,  the  exterior  form  and  interior  fact  of 
virtue,  are  independent  of  each  other  ;  that  ribaldry 
does  not  taint  the  blood,  and  burn  as  fire  in  the 
bones,  it  is  true,  that  coarseness  of  speech  and 
grossness  of  action,  owing  a  portion  of  their  start- 
ling effect  upon  us  to  the  want  of  familiarity,  are 
more  consistent  with  substantial  purity  in  those  who 
are  habituated  to  them,  than  they  at  first  sight  seem 
to  be.  Enough  ;  we  thank  God  there  are  five  cen- 
turies between  us  and  this  surface  sewerage  of 
early  English  society.  Vice  is  buried  deeper,  and 
by  so  much  leaves  the  atmosphere  purer,  now  than 
then. 

Our  third  topic  is  that  of  language.  For  the 
first  two  hundred  years  following  the  Conquest,  the 
divisions  of  speech  seem  to  have  been  strongly  de- 


LANGUAGE.  45 

fined.  Latin,  the  language  of  the  church,  was  the 
universal  tongue,  the  medium  of  communication  on 
topics  of  religion  and  philosophy.  French  was  the 
speech  of  the  court  and  nobles ;  and  Saxon,  of  the 
mass  of  the  nation.  Layamon's  Chronicle,  a  work 
of  thirty-two  thousand  lines,  written  in  Saxon,  a 
century  and  a  half  after  the  Conquest,  contains 
scarcely  fifty  French  words.  All  of  these  lan- 
guages were  used  carelessly,  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Latin,  chiefly  in  speech.  They,  therefore, 
underwent  rapid  changes.  Latin  was  saved  from 
permanent  debasement  by  possessing  a  fixed  point 
of  reversion  and  revision  in  classical  literature,  in  a 
standard  previously  set  up,  and  which  none  could 
abrogate  or  permanently  modify.  We  may  well 
believe,  however,  that  Latin  sutiered  much  perver- 
sion in  its  ordinary  use.  This  is  shown  in  what  is 
termed  Leonine  Verse,  usually  devoted  to  satire, 
and  constructed  on  accent  and  rhyme  in  neglect  of 
quantity;  also  in  Macaronic  Poetry,  an  amalgam  of 
different  languages.  Two  archbishops  in  succes- 
sion cautioned  the  universities  against  such  forms 
as ;  ego  curret,  tu  curret,  curens  est  ego,  pressing 
the  point  that  they  were  not  correct.  Some  have 
supposed  from  the  constancy  with  which  Latin  was 
used  in  accounts,  that  there  was  a  very  general 
familiarity  with  it.  When,  however,  we  look  at 
those  accounts,  we  see  that  very  little  knowledge  of 
Latin  was  required  for  their  composition.  A  few 
connecting  phrases  were  sufficient,  and  rendered 
the  same  exhaustive  service  as  a  half-dozen  words 
to  a  court  crier.     We  give  an  abridged  example : 


46    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LlTliRAiUKE. 

"Et  pro  uno  seedcod  empto  III:I, 
Et  pro  factura  de  drawgere  Hid. 
Et  pro  uno  dongecart  empto  XlVd."* 

The  Norman  French,  in  the  latter  stages  ol 
change,  as  the  nobles  were  slowly  adopting  the 
English,  must,  as  a  spoken  language,  have  had  a 
very  shifting,  careless  law  of  use.  This  change 
seems  to  have  occurred  mainly  in  the  fourteenth 
century.  It  was  accompanied  by  the  consolida- 
tion of  the  nation  to  which  reference  has  been 
made  ;  by  a  larger  transfer  of  French  romances 
to  the  English ;  and  by  that  new  national  char- 
acter shown  in  the  works  of  Chaucer,  marked 
though  they  are  with  French  idioms  and  filled 
with  French  words.  The  Saxon,  the  neglected 
tongue  of  the  common  people,  losing  its  organic 
force,  first  confounded  and  then  dropped  its  gram- 
matical inflexions.  It  thus  passed  into  the  simple 
and  hospitable  English,  which,  almost  devoid  of 
inflexions,  could  receive  all  the  words  of  other 
languages  that  any  chose  to  bring  to  it.  The 
Saxon  gave  the  bulk  of  its  vocabulary  to  the 
English,  left  behind  its  distinctive  and  exacting 
features  of  grammar,  and  with  the  simplest  pos- 
sible construction,  passed  over  as  a  new  language 
to  new-comers.  That  English  pronunciation,  un- 
der such  a  derivation,  should  be  a  network  of 
perplexities  and  anomalies,  is  not  surprising. 

The  English,  in  its  very  limited  and  fragmen- 
tary grammar,  and  comprehensive  vocabulary,  arose 
from  social  exigencies,  which  the  nation  inevitably 

*  Henry's  History  of  Great  Britain,  vol.  viii.  p.  271. 


LANGUAGP..  47 

and  unconsciously  strove  to  meet ;  and  from  the 
fresh  nationality  which  all  parties  were  combining 
to  develop.  In  the  fourtejnth  century,  the  unit- 
ing, constructive  forces,  had  so  far  come  to  prevail, 
that  a  new  language,  open  for  all  uses,  and  ready 
for  a  great  career,  was  the  result.  Chaucer  laid 
hold  of  this  germinant  speech,  disclosed  its  power 
helped  farther  to  determine  the  proportion  of  ele- 
ments which  should  belong  to  it,  and  passed  it  on, 
accelerated  in  growth  and  enriched  by  his  handling. 
He  justified  the  language  to  itself  and  to  others  by 
showing  what  it  could  do.  He  strengthened  and 
honored  it  by  great  literary  works,  and  thus  com- 
mended it  to  public  favor.  It  has  been  observed, 
that  the  English  has  changed  less  than  other  Eu- 
ropean languages  in  the  years  that  have  intervened 
between  the  present  and  the  fourteenth  century. 
For  this  fact,  several  reasons  may  be  given.  The 
excellence  and  eminence  of  Chaucer  served  to  set 
up  a  standard,  to  establish  early  an  authority  in 
the  language.  This  conservative  tendency  was 
greatly  strengthened  later  by  the  translations  of 
the  Bible,  intimately  connected  with  each  other, 
generally  circulated,  and  closely  united  to  popular 
speech.  Moreover,  our  chief  literary  period,  that 
of  Elizabeth,  lies  relatively  well  back  in  our  his- 
tory, and  thus  early  stamped  on  the  language  its 
character.  The  linguistic  fact  of  most  significance 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  is  the  junction  then 
effected  in  the  elements  of  our  vocabulary.  We 
may  represent  this  union  as  the  flowing  of  the 
Norman  into  the   Saxon,  receiving  from  it  a  new 


^8     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

law  and  direction,  and  passing  on  with  it  as  Eng- 
lish. While,  however,  there  was  an  influx  in 
volume  of  French  words  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, many  smaller  tributaries  from  it  and  the 
Latin,  earlier  and  later,  passed  without  observa- 
tion into  the  new  tongue,  the  great  river  of  English 
.>peech. 

The  fourth  and  last  circle  of  influence  which 
gathered  about  our  early  literature,  were  the  forms 
it  assumed.  It  was  almost  exclusively  a  literature 
of  poetry.  The  prose  works  of  the  time  have  an 
archaic  and  moral  interest  for  us,  rather  than  an 
artistic  one.  Poetry,  not  only  comes  first  in  litera- 
ture proper,  it  is  likely  long  to  remain  the  almost 
exclusive  feature  of  literary  art,  and  is  sure  to 
retain  the  first  position  in  all  creative  periods. 
Poetry  owes  so  much  to  form,  is  so  far  the  best 
expression  of  a  shaping  artistic  force,  as  at  once 
to  imply  its  presence,  and  to  invite  its  labor.  Nor 
is  it  strange  that  we  have  poetry  before  we  have 
prose,  any  more  than  it  is  strange  that  we  have 
cathedrals,  while  those  who  build  them  still  live  in 
hovels.  The  strongest,  most  universal,  most  ele- 
vating impulse  will  be  the  first  to  command  art. 
This  in  architecture  is  religion  ;  and  in  literature 
is  imaginative  sentiment.  Not  till  men  have  set- 
tled down  to  a  faithful,  thorough  view  of  life,  will 
they  value  prose  as  a  vehicle  of  truth,  a  thesaurus 
of  facts  ;  and  not  till  art  has  so  diffused  itself  as  to 
give  grace  and  expression  to  the  familiar,  homely 
things  of  daily  life,  will  prose  become  artistic,  and 
pass  up  into  literature. 


PROSE.  49 

Moreover,  poetry  has  a  definite  form,  a  sensible 
impression,  which  allows  its  oral  transfer  without 
change,  its  rehearsal  without  shifting,  aimless 
modifications.  While  language  lives  chiefly  on 
the  tongue  and  in  the  ear,  the  rhythm  of  poetry 
is  the  first  luxury  of  speech,  and  takes  to  its  ser- 
vice, the  universal,  easily  aroused  love  of  music, 
The  minstrel  blends  in  his  rehearsal  two  arts,  and 
draws  the  heart  after  him  with  double  bonds.  The 
changes  also  which  rhythm  calls  for  are  readily 
made  in  these  flexible  periods  of  speech,  and  them- 
*;elves  become  controlling,  formative  laws. 

Prose,  on  the  other  hand,  in  its  typical  service, 
instruction, — for  it  is  not  till  later,  it  furnishes  the 
novel  stealing  in  part  the  purposes  of  poetry, — be- 
longs to  written  language,  and  periods  of  patient 
thought ;  and  implies,  therefore,  that  the  useful  is 
holding  even  sway  with  the  beautiful,  reflection 
with  imagination.  Art,  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
rested  as  yet  with  poetry.  We  have,  indeed,  prose 
in  two  most  diverse  forms,  but  prose  that  serves 
rather  to  fix  a  date  than  to  illuminate  it. 

Sir  John  Mandeville,  in  the  middle  of  the  cen 
tury,  gives  us  his  gossipy,  fugacious  travels  that 
stint  at  no  marvels,  and  grant  to  myths  as  easy 
admittance  as  if  the  author  were  at  a  fairy  tale. 
There  are  thus  huddled  together,  fancies  for  the 
poet  and  a  few  facts  for  the  historian ;  as  first  reap- 
ers, on  the  margin  of  a  great  field,  may  gather  and 
bind  in  one  sheaf,  grass  and  flowers  and  scattered 
heads  of  grain.  The  only  other  prose  author  re- 
quiring mention  is  Wicliftc.  His  was  a  simple, 
3 


50    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Sturdy,  moral  purpose ;  a  translation  of  the  Bible  into 
the  vernacular,  the  English  of  common  life.  In  this 
he  was  aided  by  others.  The  simplicity  and  spirit- 
uality of  their  motive,  and  the  direct,  colloquial 
force  of  the  current  language,  gave  to  this  version  a 
character  like  that  which  still  belongs  to  our  Eng- 
lish Bible.  This  translation,  appearing  in  1480, 
had  a  wide  circulation,  though  unaided  by  printing, 
and  passed  from  hand  to  hand  with  danger. 

It  wrought  secretly  in  the  English  mind  for  a 
century  and  a  half,  waiting  for  that  second  and 
more  fortunate  initiation  of  a  like  work  under  Tyn- 
dale,  which  gives  the  leading  date  to  our  present 
version. 

These,  then,  are  the  domestic  influences,  the 
coarse  and  conflicting  forces  which  joined  hands, 
and  gathered  close  around  the  growth  of  our  liter- 
ary art :  a  religion  overlying  offensively  the  sur- 
face of  society,  at  war  equally  with  the  honest  in- 
stincts of  the  human  heart,  and  with  the  seeds  of 
life  hidden  under  its  own  corruptions ;  a  social 
temper,  extravagant  and  absurd  in  its  fanciful  vir- 
tues, gross  in  its  real  vices,  fighting  the  deadliest 
sins  with  a  poetic,  fictitious  sentiment ;  a  language 
gorged  with  wayward,  unorganized  material,  and 
waiting  for  some  mastery  of  mind,  some  fire  of  the 
spirit  to  lift,  consolidate  and  temper  it ;  and  a  lit- 
erature of  poetry,  that,  with  careless,  uncritical 
strength,  used  or  abused,  as  happened,  whatever 
came  to  hand,  that  grew  and  flourished  with  native 
vigor,  on  the  elements  about  it,  rank  as  these  some- 
times were. 


LECTURE   III. 

Chaucer. — Appearnnce. — Character. — National   Poet,  {a)  in  Direo 

tion  of  Composition,  {/>)  in  Language. 
Progressive  Poet,  (a)   in   Religion,  {/>)  in   Politics,  (r)  in   Poetry. — 

Choice    of    Themes    and    Forms.  —  His    Dramatic    Power.— 

Pathos,  Humor. 
Relation  of  Art  and  Reform. 
The  Retrogressive  Period. — Due,  ((?)  to  Rejection  of  Reform,  {l>) 

Civil  Wars. — Printing. — Place  of  the  Moral  Element. 

We  have  now  spoken  of  both  the  foreign  and 
domestic  influences  that  gathered  about  the  four- 
teenth century,  the  initiative  period  of  English  Ht- 
eraturc.  There  was  but  one  man  of  such  power 
that  we  need  to  consider  him  separately;  to  mark 
the  control  of  his  genius  as  itself  a  distinct  element 
of  growth.  That  man  was  Chaucer.  Though  the 
times  in  a  measure  circumscribe  genius,  genius 
gives  to  the  times  the  brightest  light  that  is  in 
them.  The  position  and  material  of  the  illumina- 
tion are  found  in  the  age  ;  but  how  far  its  pointed 
flame  shall  ascend  is  determined  by  him  who  feeds 
it.  Without  Chaucer,  the  fourteenth  century  would 
flicker  and  glimmer  in  our  literary  history  with  a 
light  but  little  greater  than  that  of  antecedent  years. 
If  the  dreary,  tedious  Gower,  for  a  time  at  least  the 
friend  of  Chaucer,  remained  as  the  chief  represen- 
tative of  early  English  poetry,  few  indeed  would 
seek  those  pale  rays,  or  much  value  them  when 
found.     It  was  the  task  of  genius  to  lift  the  period 

(sO 


52     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

into  permanent  distinction,  and  shed  upon  it  its 
serene  glory.  Gower,  ambling  his  Pegasus  with 
placid  indifference  along  a  way  of  Latin  or  French 
or  English  verse,  as  it  chanced,  alike  plodding  in 
all,  established  the  average  grade  of  the  time, 
spreads  out,  in  his  njultitudinous  verse,  the  Egyp- 
tian plain,  above  which  towers  in  strength  Chaucer, 
a  sphynx  that  renders  conspicuous  and  memorable 
through  the  silent  repose  of  many  centuries  the  en- 
trance of  that  way,  which  leads  in  literature  to  our 
great  national  labors. 

Chaucer  was  of  moderate  stature,  full  form,  of 
somewhat  retiring  manners,  with  a  sharp,  humorous 
and  downcast  eye ;  a  lover  of  books,  and  good  liv- 
ing; of  large  experience,  and  varied  intercourse 
with  men.  His  life  was  not  merely  one  of  literary 
activity,  but  of  extensive  public  service.  He  was 
directly  attached  to  the  court,  and  assigned  missions 
of  trust  at  home  and  abroad. 

In  quality  of  manhood  he  was  thoroughly  Eng- 
lish. English  in  the  outward,  observant  cast  of  his 
mind;  in  his  honest  handling  of  facts  without  gloss 
or  concealment ;  in  his  humor,  his  good-fellowship, 
his  love  of  men  and  their  doings.  Says  Browne,  in 
his  enforcement  of  this  point,  "  The  national  char- 
acter is  a  root  of  bravery  rising  to  a  stem  of  strong, 
social  feeling,  gnarled  and  twisted  just  above  the 
ground  with  genuine  fun.  Said  to  be  slow  to  talk, 
the  English  are  good  fellows  through  it  all.  T.o 
put  it  differently,  they  are  before  all  things  human 
and  sociable.  In  this  sense,  who  is  an  Englishman 
more  English  than  Chaucer.     He  loves  the  haunts 


THE  ENGLISH  CHARACTER  OF  CHAUCER.    53 

of  men,  the  places  where  they  dwell,  the  episodes 
of  mutual  need  that  bring  and  keep  them  together; 
meat  and  drink ;  industry  and  play ;  the  uprisings 
and  downsittings,  the  incomings  and  outgoings  of 
men  and  women."  * 

Thus  English  in  character,.  Chaucer  is  the  first 
national  poet.  This  national  force  of  the  man  is 
seen  in  many  directions.  His  composition  was 
fitted  to  interest  all  classes.  Unlike  the  ballad  or 
the  romance  or  the  treatise,  it  was  directed  to  no 
one  division  of  society,  but  brought  amusement  to 
all.  It  broke  away  from  the  literary  traditions  and 
restricted  tastes  of  ranks  and  classes,  and  gave  itself 
to  general  themes.  This  is  especially  true  of  his 
later  and  greater  production,  the  Canterbury  Tales 
Nothing  could  be  more  broad  and  catholic  than 
these,  open  to  the  Englishman  as  English,  and  to 
man  as  man. 

This  nationality  of  taste  is  also  seen  in  his  uni- 
form choice  of  the  English  language.  He  earl}) 
translated  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  one  of  the 
most  popular  of  French  poems,  by  way  of  adding 
interest  and  grace  to  his  mother  tongue.  He  ac- 
quired that  mastery  over  the  English,  that  ease  of 
versification  and  aptness  of  expression  in  it,  which 
bespeak  one  in  love  with  his  language,  aiding  it  and 
aided  by  it  in  equal  proportion.  This  clinging  to 
the  national  speech,  the  coarse  vernacular,  and 
building  it  up  in  literary  beauty  and  strength,  dis- 
close the  truly  national  bent  of  his  feelings  and 
tastes.     This,  too,  was  at  a  time  when  the  English 

*  Chaucer's  England,  vol.  i.  p.  47. 


54    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

had  hardly  emerged  from  tlie  disgrace  of  its  servi- 
tude, and  when  imimpassioned  poets,  like  Gower, 
wandered  far  from  the  popular  heart  in  Latin  and 
in  French.  There  was  a  national  vindication  and 
national  service  in  this  action  of  Chaucer ;  and  a 
flavor,  therefore,  of  national  gratitude  should  min- 
gle with  our  admiration  of  him. 

Again,  Chaucer  was  a  progressive  poet ;  not  a 
radical  reformatory  poet,  but  one  who  always  and 
easily  perceived  the  line  of  improvement,  and  had  a 
predilection  for  it ;  chose  to  walk  along  it,  at  least 
so  far  as  good  fellowship  would  allow  him.  Thus, 
though  by  no  means  a  reformer  in  the  sense  in 
which  Wicliffe  was  one,  and  ready  doubtless  to 
render  a  general  assent  to  the  doctrines  and  even 
the  superstitions  of  the  church,  he  had  a  keen 
discernment  of  its  many  abuses  in  practice,  and 
lashes  the  delinquents  with  unsparing  satire.  It 
is  thought  that  he  owed  some  of  his  predilection 
for  English,  and  vigor  in  it,  to  an  acquaintance  with 
Wicliffe,  and  to  ihe  Piers  Ploughman  of  Lang- 
lande.  This  poem,  of  a  religious,  satirical,  alle- 
gorical and  erratic  character,  fitted  for  popular  cir- 
culation, was  more  vigorous  and  of  sharper  insight 
than  any  other  production  of  the  period  save  the 
works  of  Chaucer.  "  It  was  written  with  as  intense 
an  earnestness,  and  as  untiring  a  search  after  truth 
as  any  prorluction  in  the  English  language."  "•••■  Its 
occasional  felicity  of  expression  and  popular  cast, 
its  satirical  and  social  features,  constituted  it  a 
fitting    study   for    the   author   of    the    Canterbury 

*  Introduction  of  the  Early  English  Text  Society. 


Chaucer's  political  spirit.  55 

Tales.  It  has  also  about  the  same  measure  of  the 
reformatory  spirit  as  that  which  fell  to  the  works 
of  Chaucer,  though  it  is  certainly  written  in  a 
much  sterner  mood.  While  Chaucer  fits  his  satire 
to  his  easy  and  ethically  indolent  temper,  it  is  never- 
theless directed  with  unerring  instinct  to  the  right 
mark. 

He  was  equally  progressive  in  his  political 
spirit.  The  son  of  a  trader  of  the  city  of  Lon- 
don, he  entered  earnestly  into  the  conflict  of  the 
mayoralty  of  the  city  in  behalf  of  John  of  North- 
ampton, the  candidate  of  municipal  rights  and  re- 
form. The  proximity  of  London  to  Westminster, 
and  its  growing  commercial  strength,  made  it  jealous 
of  court  influences,  progressive  and  liberal  in  its 
sentiments.  For  his  participation  in  this  contest, 
Chaucer  fell  under  the  displeasure  of  the  court. 
His  democratic  sentiments  appear  also  in  his  writ- 
ings, in  the  cast  of  his  characters,  and  in  the  words 
he  puts  into  their  mouths.  "  Straw  for  your  gen- 
tillesse,"  exclaims  the  host  of  the  Tabard,  and  we 
feel  that  it  is  Chaucer,  speaking  out  of  a  healthy 
English  heart.  He  repeatedly  expresses  in  full 
his  estimate  of  rank ;  as  in  the  wife  of  Bath's  tale  : 

"  But  for  ye  speken  of  swiche  gentillesse, 
As  is  descended  out  of  old  richesse, 
That  therefore  shullen  ye  be  gentilmen ; 
Swiche  arrogance  n'is  not  worth  an  hen. 

And  he  that  wol  han  pris  of  his  genterie, 

For  he  was  boren  of  a  gentil  hous, 
And  had  his  elders  noble  and  vertuous. 
And  n'ill  himselven  do  no  gentil  dedes, 


56    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Ne  folwe  his  gentil  auncestrie,  that  ded  is, 
He  n'is  not  gentil,  be  he  duk  or  erl ; 
For  vilains  sinful  dedes  make  a  cherl. 
For  gentillesse  n'is  but  the  renomee 
Of  thin  auncestres,  for  hir  high  bountee, 
Which  is  a  strange  thing  to  thy  persone: 
Thy  gentillesse  cometh  fro  God  alone. 
Than  cometh  our  veray  gentillesse  of  grace, 
It  was  no  thing  bequethed  us  with  our  place." 

The  fundamental  principle  of  human  liberty  is 
not  merely  set  forth  in  this  passage,  but  the 
grounds  of  it  are  vigorously  urged.  Thus,  in  the 
birth  of  the  English  nation,  in  the  obscure  begin- 
nings of  that  great  controversy,  which,  ripening 
from  generation  to  generation,  has  given  form  and 
character  to  English  history,  and  achieved  the  liber- 
ty of  the  freest  and  most  peaceful  of  the  nations  of 
the  earth,  a  voice  was  found,  the  voice  of  her  first 
great  poet,  to  ring  forth  the  rights  of  manhood  and 
virtue. 

In  his  own  art,  poetry,  Chaucer  was  equallji 
progressive,  though  he  reaches  his  highest  results 
by  a  growth  rather  than  by  a  leap.  The  poetry  of 
his  time  was  made  narrow  and  puerile  by  the  ex- 
travagant and  artificial  sentiment  of  chivalry ;  and 
by  a  tendency  to  obscure,  trivial  allegory.  Both 
of  these  restraints  Chaucer  cast  off,  and  at  length 
reached  a  form  of  composition  as  direct,  natural  and 
entertaining  as  that  of  any  of  his  successors.  God- 
win says  very  strongly  of  him,  "  While  the  roman- 
tic writers  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries 
are  not  less  exuberant  than  Homer  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  blows  and  wounds  and  fighting  fields,  Chau- 
cer has  not  prostituted  one  line  to  the  fashionable 


ALLEGORY.  57 

pursuit."'*'  We  owe  much  to  this  better,  broader 
tendency  of  Chaucer.  His  works  helped  quietly  to 
displace  the  literature  of  chivalry,  and  to  breathe 
into  English  letters  a  more  serene  and  comprehen- 
sive spirit.  We  thus  had  no  need  of  a  Cervantes 
to  arrest  with  satire  the  extravagance  and  feeble- 
ness of  an  effete  system.  This  early  acceptance  of 
real,  common  life  as  his  subject  shows  the  humanity 
of  Chaucer,  and  the  penetrative,  commanding  char- 
acter of  his  mind. 

The  taste  for  allegory  was  inwoven  with  that  of 
chivalry,  and  resulted  in  conceits  still  more  remote 
and  fanciful.  It  was  also  united  with  a  belief  in 
enchantments,  and  a  constant  intervention  of  super- 
natural agents  in  the  absorbing  affairs  of  knight- 
hood. Acceptable  allegory,  from  the  artificial  form 
of  its  composition,  can  occur  but  rarely  in  literature. 
It  belongs,  on  the  whole,  to  rude  periods  and  un- 
cultivated minds.  Device,  cunning  contrivance,  a 
spirit  of  riddles  accompany  a  state  of  semi-enlight- 
enment, in  which  the  mind  delights  in  its  own  gym- 
nastic feats ;  not  yet  sobered  by  a  clear,  direct  view 
of  outward  beauty,  or  brought  down  to  a  quiel 
search  into  the  increasing  wonders  of  knowledge 
Early  English  literature  is  full  of  allegory,  the  rude 
mind  being  pleased  with  the  play  and  illusion  of  a 
double  meaning,  when  it  cared  little  for  the  senti- 
ments involved.  Moreover  a  predominant  imagina- 
tion gave  easy  and  perfect  personification  to  ab- 
stract qualities,  and  Messrs.  Do-well,  Do-better  and 
Do-best   became   an   effective,    substantial   oligar- 

*  Life  of  Chaucer,  vol.  ii.  p.  220. 
3* 


58     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

chy  in  the  kingdom  of  virtue.  It  was  only  when 
these  and  like  conceptions  came  forth  from  the 
world  of  ideas  as  visible  figures,  ready,  with  ex- 
tended hands,  to  take  partners,  and  become  com 
panions  in  the  sports  and  labors  of  men,  that  alle- 
gory, freely  entering  the  thoughts  by  the  door  of  a 
vigorous  fancy,  exerted  a  controlling  influence  over 
the  ordinary  mind.  Thus  religion  has  never  been 
able  in  illiterate  periods  to  keep  sufficiently  in  the 
background  the  tendency  to  personification,  and 
angels  and  demons,  swarming  in  on  either  hand, 
have  overpowered  the  rational,  voluntary  life  of 
man.  This  extravagance  of  allegory  easily  united 
Itself  to  that  of  chivalry,  and  gave  rise  to  produc- 
tions fanciful  and  puerile.  The  earlier  works  of 
Chaucer,  The  Court  of  Love,  The  Assembly  of 
Fowls,  The  Flower  and  the  Leaf,  Chaucer's  Dream 
were  constructed  under  the  influence  of  this  prev- 
alent taste.  The  House  of  Fame  is  in  the  best 
vein  of  allegory,  and  the  great  poet  is  less  ham- 
pered than  another  by  the  artificial  and  the  false. 
It  is  plainly  to  be  seen,  that  not  till  his  later  works 
did  Chaucer  win  his  entire  liberty,  and  give  himself 
fearlessly  to  the  simple,  native  force  of  his  theme. 
In  the  Canterbury  Tales,  allegory  disappears,  and 
we  have  once  more  the  plain,  pleasing  conditions 
of  daily  life. 

In  language  we  have  already  marked  the  pro- 
gressive spirit  of  Chaucer.  He  had  the  insight  to 
Bee,  and  the  feeling  to  greet,  the  strength  of  the 
new-born  tongue ;  and  by  this  sympathy  with 
rising    greatness,  and   coming   times,   exerted    an 


Chaucer's  dramatic  power.  59 

influence  incalculably  more  than  would  otnerwise 
have  fallen  to  him.  His  works  in  Latin  would  have 
been  as  seed  stored  under  lock  and  key ;  in  Eng- 
lish, they  fell  into  a  virgin  soil,  and  with  them,  and 
under  their  shadow,  have  arisen  the  trees,  shrubs 
and  flowers  of  a  broad,  prolific  land. 

We  have  thus  far  spoken  of  those  general  char- 
acteristics of  the  works  of  Chaucer  which  made 
them  at  the  time  especially  significant ;  we  now 
turn  to  their  more  intrinsic  and  peculiar  qualities. 
Without  central,  creative  force,  these  radiating  in- 
fluences would  have  speedily  fallen  off. 

As  the  great  work  of  Chaucer  is  the  Canter- 
bury Tales,  it  is  common,  resting  his  merits  on  this, 
to  speak  of  him  as  possessed  of  high  dramatic 
power.  Its  general  prologue  contains  a  series  of 
characters  introduced  with  sharp  delineation  ;  while 
the  connecting  prologues  of  the  several  stories  pre- 
sent brief,  but  spirited,  dialogue.  These  portions 
fall  sensibly  short  of  dramatic  composition  in  its 
pure  form,  yet  imply  something  of  the  same  power. 
The  dramatic  writer  is  creative  rather  than  descrip- 
tive, works  from  within,  causes  character  to  grow 
up  before  us  from  its  living  constituents  in  words 
and  actions.  The  narrator,  the  novelist  is  as  often 
descriptive  as  creative  ;  works  by  observation,  and 
is  more  exterior  to  the  circumstances  and  parties  he 
delineates.  Yet  he  cannot,  though  more  aided  by 
description,  prosper  by  it  alone.  With  true  drama- 
tic force  he  must  set  his  characters  in  action,  and 
from  time  to  time  give  them  the  play  of  lifelike  dia- 
logue.     The    dramatist    moves    exclusively   in  the 


6o     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

vigorous  elements  of  speech  and  action  ;  the  nar- 
rator supports  his  personages  and  unites  his  events 
with  the  lighter,  more  facile  resources  of  descrip- 
tion. It  may  well  happen,  therefore,  that  one,  like 
Fielding,  should  prosper  as  a  novelist,  and  fail  as  a 
dramatist.  Keen  observation  goes  far  to  give  suc- 
cess in  the  one  undertaking ;  while,  in  the  other, 
this  must  have  passed  over  into  intuitive  insight, 
and  easy  instinctive  development.  If,  therefore, 
we  withhold  the  term  dramatic  from  Chaucer  in  its 
full,  precise  form,  we  must  concede  it  in  its  rudi- 
ments, as  expressing  that  pictorial  power  which 
deals  in  a  living  way  with  men  and  their  actions  ; 
and  finds  the  characters  whom  it  calls  up  propor- 
tionate, natural  and  pliant  to  its  purposes.  This 
power  Chaucer  possessed  in  a  high  degree,  and  the 
people  of  his  tales  come  before  us  as  a  veritable 
troop  of  pilgrims,  each  with  the  mark  of  an  individ- 
ual character  and  of  a  peculiar  calling  strongly  on 
him.  We  come  at  the  life  of  the  century  through 
this  motley  company,  as  they  file  out  of  the  court- 
yard of  the  inn  ;  we  reach  its  temper,  and  catch  the 
flavor  of  its  sentiments,  as  certainly  as  we  do  those 
of  our  own  society  in  the  streets  of  our  cities.  When 
the  artist  sketches  them,  trotting  leisurely  on,  in 
loose  array,  marshalled  by  my  host  of  the  Tabard, 
we  know  them  each  and  all ;  they  are  as  familiar  to 
us  in  garb  and  carriage  as  the  persons  who,  in  apt 
illustration,  face  a  descriptive  page  in  Dickens. 

Chaucer,  like  all  who  excel  in  the  delineation 
of  character,  was  a  master  of  humor  and  pathos. 
These  are  the  light  and  shade  of  every  human  pic- 


HUMOR    AND    PATHOS.  6\ 

ture,  and  must  everywhere  inter-penetrate  each 
other  in  shifting  proportions.  They  give  to  each 
other  by  contrast  and  by  change  intensity  and  re- 
lief. As  light  and  darkness  are  expressed  in  de- 
grees, turn  upon  the  diverse  state  of  one  element, 
so  pathos  and  humor,  the  sober  and  the  sportive, 
are  one  living,  sympathetic  impulse  differently  act 
ed  on,  met  by  diverse  forces  in  the  outside  world. 
The  transition  from  one  to  the  other  is  safe  and 
easy,  when  the  artist  feels  alike  the  force  of  both, 
and  floats  on  an  emotional  current,  that  gathers,  of 
its  own  bias,  deep  and  sombre  shadows  under  the 
overhanging  bank,  or  glides  gayly,  noisily  down  the 
steep  incline. 

Chaucer  was  strongly  predisposed  to  humor. 
His  serenity  and  good-nature  led  him  into  the  sun 
shine.  He  loved  to  take  things  lightly,  occupied 
with  their  surface  play,  with  only  such  brief  glances 
into  their  mysteries  and  woes  as  would  allow  him 
to  return  with  unbroken  spirits.  His  humor  is  a 
well-meaning,  pleasant  sprite,  that  can  only  be  sad- 
dened for  a  moment  by  the  flying  shadow  of  grief, 
and,  easily  shirking  the  burden,  comes  back  with 
wonted  good-nature  and  relish  to  the  trifles,  the 
haps  and  mishaps  of  intercourse. 

Closely  allied  to  this  sportive  vein  of  Chaucer  is 
his  vulgarity.  He  has  the  sensual  vulgarity  of 
grossness,  up  to,  or  very  nearly  up  to,  his  times. 
Yet  it  is  not  the  sin,  the  filth,  but  the  fun  of  the 
thing  that  he  is  after ;  and  so  manifest  is  this,  that 
we  laugh  away  in  part  our  irritation  and  shame.  We 
feel  that  we  have  been  caught,  yet  so  fairly  caught, 


62     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

that  we  are  unwilling  to  be  angry.  Laughter  is 
wholesome,  and  the  malignant  spirits  of  irreverence, 
the  impure  spirits  of  unseemly  jesting,  are  in  a 
measure  exorcised  by  it.  As  malarious  vapor  rapidly 
disappears  under  the  open  sky,  and  requires  to  be 
confined  in  a  chamber,  or  shut  up  in  a  close  court, 
to  become  deadly,  so  vice,  held  within  a  vicious 
heart,  is  tenfold  pestilential,  and  shoots  out  through 
the  bitter  word,  like  a  scalding  jet  of  steam.  With 
Chaucer,  vulgarity  lay  under  the  broad  heavens,  an 
offensive  fact  indeed,  but  one  with  which  he  had 
no  more  to  do  than  another.  He  chose  to  laugh, 
others  might  run  away  and  hide,  if  they  pleased. 
So  much  perhaps  may  be  fairly  said  in  extenuation ; 
yet  these  low,  sensual  features  remain,  a  thing  of 
bad  significance.  One  needs  to  know  the  moral 
constitution  of  the  recipient,  or  he  may  breathe  pes- 
tilence in  this  atmosphere.  If  one  goes  to  Chaucer 
for  pleasure,  he  eats  honey  from  the  carcase  of  a 
lion  ;  while  he  feeds  one  sense,  he  may  have  occa- 
sion to  close  others.  Yet  with  all  we  acquit  him  of 
the  lasciviousness  of  later  periods. 

While  society  is  the  chosen  theme  of  Chaucer, 
he  has  a  kindly  love  of  nature.  He  treats  of  it 
without  analysis  and  without  interpretation ;  but 
with  a  quick  perception  of  its  pleasant,  cheerful, 
aspects.  Thus  he  speaks  of  the  mornhig  in  the 
Squiere's  Tale : 

Up  riseth  freshe  Canace  hireselve, 

As  rody  and  bright,  as  the  yonge  Sonne, 

That  in  the  ram  is  foure  degrees  yronne ; 


THE    POET    NOT    A    REFORMER.  63 

Tlie  vapour,  which  that  fro  the  erthe  glode, 
Maketh  the  sonne  to  seme  rody  and  brode : 
But  natheles,  it  was  so  faire  a  sight, 
That  it  made  all  hir  hertes  for  to  light, 
"What  for  the  seson,  and  the  morwening, 
And  for  the  foules  that  she  herde  sing. 
For  right  anon  she  wiste  what  they  ment. 
Right  by  hir  song,  and  knew  al  hir  intent. 

An  exterior  appreciation  of  the  good  and  beauty 
of  the  world  is  the  first  spontaneous  tribute  of  the 
poetic  spirit  to  nature;  an  analytic,  penetrative  and 
spiritual  interpretation  of  it  belongs  to  a  period  of 
more  reflection. 

From  these  characteristics  of  Chaucer,  his 
national  and  progressive  temper,  his  strong  sympa- 
thies with  men,  his  sense  of  the  abuses  under  which 
they  suffered,  and  his  good-will  to  them,  we  see  that 
he  felt  appreciatively  the  moral  forces  of  his  age,  and 
that  his  genius  ripened  under  them,  both  in  the 
direction  and  form  of  his  labors.  He  was  not,  it  is 
true,  a  reformer;  artists  as  artists  are  rarely,  if  ever 
so.  An  urgent,  cogent,  ethical  sentiment  eats  a 
man  up,  gives  the  soul  an  intensity  and  velocity  that 
are  sublime,  perhaps,  but  not  beautiful.  The  true 
poet  of  a  period  feels  the  moral  elements  at  work 
about  him,  but  is  not  driven  by  them.  He  is  left 
sufficiently  free  to  treat  them  artistically,  sesthetically, 
appreciatively,  with  something  of  the  patience  and 
sufferance  we  find  in  nature,  in  the  imperturbable 
tarrying  of  Divine  Providence  till  events  ripen.  He 
has  little  of  the  haste,  struggle,  fierceness,  over- 
estimates of  reform.  There  is  an  affection  in  him 
for  the  present  and  the  past,  a  catholic  appreciation 


64     THE    PHILOSOPHV   OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

of  their  beauties,  an  eye  for  their  inner  embryonic 
forces,  which  make  him  less  headstrong  in  change, 
less  confident  of  its  results.  He  uses  the  ethical 
light  that  is  in  him  not  so  much  to  cast  deep 
shadows  on  the  sins  of  the  hour,  as  to  bring  out  in 
bright  relief  its  virtues,  and  to  make  each  declining 
sun  shed  long  beams  of  promise  on  the  horizon, 
assuring  us  that  the  days  hold  each  other  and  unfold 
each  other  with  one  continuous,  triumphant  force. 
The  great  poet  feels  the  ethical  temper  and  working 
of  his  time,  as  one  who  tarries  in  the  sunlight,  not 
as  one  who  works  in  it ;  as  one  who  enjoys  it, 
rather  than  as  one  who  is  put  to  speed  under  it. 
Without  a  wakeful  consciousness  to  moral  elements, 
the  mind  is  left  opaque  and  feeble;  fiercely  stimu- 
lated by  them,  it  is  thrown  into  discipleship,  and 
achieves  an  epic,  rather  than  writes  one ;  simply 
translucent  and  receptive  under  them,  it  breaks 
their  solid  beams  into  brilliant  lines  of  color. 

Chaucer,  like  most  men  of  unusual  powers, 
gained  the  appreciation  that  has  fallen  to  him  some- 
what slowly.  It  is  by  some  thought  that  in  the 
esteem  of  his  own  times,  and  of  those  immediately 
subsequent,  he  scarcely  surpassed  Gower,  of  whom 
Lowell  has  said,  "  Our  literature  had  to  lie  by  and 
recruit  for  more  than  four  centuries  ere  it  could 
give  us  an  equal  vacuity  in  Tupper,  so  persistent  a 
uniformity  of  commonplace  in  the  Recreations  of  a 
Country  Parson. ""'•'■ 

Having  thus  presented  the  forces  at  work  in 
the   last   half  of  the  fourteenth   century,  and   the 

*  My  Study  Windows,  p.  260. 


THE    RETROGRESSIVE    PERIOD.  65 

height  to  which  genius  carried  them,  we  turn  to  the 
interregnum  of  EngUsh  Hterature,  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury and  the  earlier  portion  of  the  sixteenth.  This 
may  be  called  the  retrogressive  period,  and  so  sep- 
arated the  times  which  preceded  from  those  which 
followed  it,  that  the  problem  of  progress  was  taken 
up  almost  anew  at  a  later  date.  Not  only  was  noth- 
ing added  to  the  ground  gained  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  the  genius  of  that  period  suffered  eclipse, 
and  was  not  disclosed  again  for  two  centuries.  In 
Scotland,  indeed,  a  literature  more  nearly  corres- 
ponding to  that  of  the  fourteenth  century  in  Eng- 
land found  place  in  the  fifteenth,  and  the  deferred 
dawn  of  letters  appeared  in  the  north,  with  less 
brilliancy,  under  Dunbar  and  his  associates. 

A  chief  reason  for  this  barrenness  of  the  fif- 
teenth century  was  the  stern  repression  which  met 
all  free  inquiry.  "  The  University  of  Oxford  chose 
twelve  of  its  members  to  examine  the  writings  of 
Wicliffe,  and  the  report  made  presented  two  hun- 
dred and  sixty-seven  opinions  which  were  described 
as  worthy  of  fire."*  So  voluminous  and  hot  a  cen- 
sure did  this  university,  and  with  it  all  England, 
pass  on  him  who  first  brought  to  it  bold,  free 
thought,  and  religious  emancipation.  Severe  meas- 
ures were  set  on  foot ;  the  reformation,  as  a  forest 
conflagration,  was  extinguished.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, completely  trampled  out;  it  sank  into  the 
soil,  ran  along  the  low  ground,  and  smouldered  in 
various  places  as  the  intelligence  or  independence 
of  the  common  people  gave  it  opportunity.     The 

*  Revolutions  in  English  History,  vol.  i.  p.  590. 


66    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

hold  which  the  new  doctrines  maintained  on  the 
popular  mind  is  shown  in  a  work  entitled,  The 
Lantern  of  Light,  a  fearless  exposure  of  religious 
corruption ;  and  in  the  martyrdom  of  Claydon  at 
Smithfield.  The  reaction  in  the  church,  however, 
was  so  complete,  that  its  upper  orders  became  more 
than  ever  luxurious  and  licentious,  its  lower  or- 
ders increasingly  dissolute ;  both  uniting  to  suppress 
the  present  movement,  and  to  provoke  a  new  one 
more  thorough  and  irresistible. 

The  cause  of  religious  liberty  was  identified,  as 
it  always  must  be,  with  that  of  intellectual  freedom. 
Learning  declined,  especially  at  Oxford,  and  her 
scholars,  through  the  poverty  of  her  foundations,  be- 
came "travelling  mendicants,"  treated,  at  times, 
with  the  utmost  indignity.  Herein  is  a  first  and 
sufficient  reason  for  the  literary  feebleness  of  the 
period.  The  bold  proffer  of  life  that  was  made  it 
had  been  rejected,  and  the  reactionary  influences 
of  vice,  ignorance  and  superstition  were  in  the  as- 
cendant. 

A  second,  confirmatory  force  were  the  civil  wars, 
which  raged  in  the  latter  portion  of  the  century. 
They  involved  little  or  no  principle,  were  ambitious 
struggles  for  power,  carried  lawless  violence  every- 
where, and  were  thus  thoroughly  opposed  to  the 
peaceful  and  enlightened  arts.  The  immediate  in- 
fluence of  these  wars  of  succession  was  almost 
wholly  evil,  though  they  tended  at  length  to  con- 
solidate and  strengthen  society  and  government. 
This  civil  strife  was  greatly  aided  by  the  compara- 
tive independence  and  power  of  the  nobles.     Many 


WARS    OF    THE    ROSES.  6/ 

of  these  perished  on  the  battle-field,  or  on  the  scaf- 
fold. They  mutually  broke  each  other  in  pieces, 
and  when  the  succession  was  finally  established  in 
the  strong  hand  of  Henry  VII.  they  were  prepared 
to  render  an  obedience  more  complete,  and  to  fall 
into  a  position  more  subordinate,  than  ever  before. 
The  government  was  established  on  stronger  foun- 
dations ;  and  later  insurrections,  like  those  of  Suf- 
folk and  of  the  Commonwealth,  were  in  the  interests 
of  the  people  rather  than  of  the  nobles.  The  law 
of  Henry  the  VII.  forbidding  to  the  nobles  the  main- 
tenance of  retainers,  other  than  domestic  servants, 
shows  at  once  how  thoroughly  the  power  of  the 
aristocracy  was  broken.  This  pulverizing  afresh 
of  society,  making  way  for  a  new,  national  aggrega- 
tion, was  the  chief  beneficial  result  of  the  Wars  of 
the  Roses,  and  was  ultimately,  therefore,  favorable 
to  the  more  truly  national  life  which  belonged  to 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  These  wars  helped  to  do, 
in  the  political  world,  what  reform,  at  a  later 
period,  accomplished  in  the  religious  world ;  and 
an  arrogant  nobility  and  a  haughty  clergy  slowly 
sank  to  a  level  more  consistent  with  national  unity 
and  national  liberty.  Separate  centres  of  influence 
and  intrigue  were  broken  up,  and  all  power  began 
to  go  forth  from  the  court,  the  government,  the  na- 
tion, the  popular  heart. 

The  latter  portion  of  the  fifteenth  century,  1474, 
was  marked  by  the  introduction  of  printing  into 
England.  This  art,  however,  unfolded  its  vast  re- 
sources very  slowly.  It  offers  means  only,  and  de- 
mands a  great  and  noble  spirit  for  their  use.     For 


68     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

the  first  fifty  years  of  its  existence,  it  was  waiting 
for  the  power,  that  should  lay  hold  of  it,  as  a  ready 
weapon,  and  smite  with  it  the  intellectual  tyranny  of 
the  times.  Its  first  labors  were  inspired  by  no 
great  purpose,  and  were  in  part  unfavorable  to 
scholarship.  Manuscripts  were  negligently  repro- 
duced, and,  displaced  by  their  printed  rivals,  dis- 
appeared, rendering  more  difficult  the  careful  edit- 
ing of  later  critical  periods.  There  was,  none  the 
less,  slumbering  in  the  press  another  of  those  pow- 
ers which  were  to  make  the  next  struggle  f':r  intel- 
lectual liberty  so  different  in  its  results  from  those 
that  had  preceded.  The  bullet  was  not  more 
fatal  to  the  sway  of  the  mailed  knight  than  were 
the  swift,  prolific  messengers  of  the  press  to  the 
dominion  of  the  religious  and  philosophical  bigot. 
Invention,  which  has  always  found  its  home  with 
the  people,  furnished  the  two  weapons,  which,  more 
than  all  others,  have  levelled  aristocracy  and  hier- 
archy, and  put  men  in  possession  of  their  civil  and 
religious  birthright.  The  people  have  wrought 
most  effectively  in  their  own  cause  by  that  invent* 
ive  power  which  is  the  best  development  of  theii 
strength. 

This  period  of  subsidence,  in  which  every  re- 
pressive influence  rushed  in  to  submerge  the  ger- 
minant  seeds  of  progress,  presents  as  much  to 
interest  us  in  its  prose  as  in  its  poetry,  and  offers 
but  very  little  in  either  direction.  On  the  one  side 
are  Pecock,  Fortescue,  Malory;  on  the  other  Oc- 
cleve,  Lydgate,  Skelton.  We  pass  them  all,  mere- 
ly mentioning  them  that  they  may  give  a  little  dis- 


THE    ELIZABETHAN    ERA.  69 

tention  to  a  period  that  would  otherwise  collapse, 
and  be  lost  to  our  literature ;  a  dreary  one  hundred 
and  fifty  years  whose  consolation  is,  that  the  down- 
ward here  touched  the  upward  movement,  and 
passed  into  it.  Out  of  this  darkness  leaped  the 
day  we  hail  with  double  delight.  As  this  period 
drew  to  a  close,  in  the  vigorous  reign  of  Henry  VIII., 
those  forces  were  active,  which  were  to  shape  the 
coming  years  of  progress,  and  began  to  show  in 
such  men  as  Tyndale,  Coverdale,  More,  Ascham, 
Surrey,  the  strength  and  diversity  of  later  years. 

We  now  pass  to  the  period  designated  as  Eliza- 
bethan ;  the  first  creative  period  of  English  letters. 
Times,  like  colors  on  the  clouds,  have  no  definite 
outlines ;  they  have  centres;  surfaces,  directions, 
not  margins.  We  gather  into  this  period  the  ante- 
cedent causes  which  gave  rise  to  it,  and  its  own 
fruits  ripening  in  times  immediately  subsequent. 
It  is  the  period  of  Spenser,  Shakespeare  and  Milton. 
It  is  clearly  defined  in  the  first,  reaches  its  zenith 
in  the  second,  and  passes  away  in  the  third.  As 
this  is  the  great  era  of  our  literary  history,  and  also 
the  first  of  its  stages  of  consecutive,  derivative 
growth,  we  must  study  carefully  its  productive 
forces ;  those  in  which  it  had  its  origin. 

As  we  attribute  very  much  of  the  superiority  of 
this  period  to  the  ethical  activity  called  out  by  the 
Reformation,  we  wish  to  inquire  into  the  real  value 
in  progress  of  the  ethical  power.  Some,  like 
Buckle,  have  assiduously  disparaged^ its  influence  in 
civilization.  His  view  owes  whatever  of  plausibility 
belongs  to  it  to  the  limited  meaning  attached  to  the 


JO    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

word  moral.  It  is  often  restricted  to  religious  ac- 
tivity, and  even  at  that,  to  a  dogmatic,  formal  and 
preceptive  one.  If  we  give  to  the  word  ethical,  tiiC 
compass  which  falls  to  it  from  the  depth  and  activ- 
ity of  the  ethical  sentiment  in  our  constitution,  we 
shall  hardly  afterward  deny  the  important  part 
played  by  this  impulse  in  all  periods  of  progress. 
Religious  activity  is  but  the  more  intense  play  of 
the  moral  nature,  its  movement  under  the  leading 
facts  of  our  spiritual  relations  in  life.  A  false  relig- 
ion is  the  most  fatal  of  anodynes  to  the  conscien- 
tious insight  of  the  mind,  and  times  of  quiet 
submission  to  this  external  tyranny  of  priest,  ritual 
and  creed,  should  be  instanced,  not  as  examples  of 
the  activity  of  the  moral  sentiments,  but  of  their  re- 
pression and  perversion.  The  fungi  that  feed  upon 
a  tree,  consuming  its  native  quality,  are  no  measure 
of  its  own  vital  force.  The  moral  nature  is  never  so 
thoroughly  put  to  sleep,  and  never  so  truly  impotent, 
as  in  periods  of  corrupt  sacerdotal  rule  ;  in  which  ex- 
ternal authority  is  substituted  for  internal  conviction, 
submxission  for  virtue,  and  a  ritual  service  for  the 
guidance  of  a  quickened  conscience.  If  we  were  in 
search  of  specimen  periods,  showing  what  is  possi- 
ble in  art  and  literature  aside  from  the  moral  nature, 
we  should  bring  forward  these  moments  of  paraly- 
sis, of  torpid  and  benumbed  sensibility.  On  the 
other  hand,  reform  in  religion,  a  reasserting  of  indi- 
vidual rights,  a  resurrection  of  private  thought,  in- 
terpretation, conviction,  constitute  the  spring-time 
of  ethical  sentiment.  Though  the  movement  may 
be  partial,  so  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  a  rebellion  of  con- 


INFLUENCE    OF    THE    ETHICAL    ELEMENT.  7I 

science  against  usurped  authority.  Civil  liberty 
and  the  love  of  liberty  are  to  be  pronounced  upon, 
not  during  the  stretches  of  despotism,  but  in  those 
halcyon  days  in  which  every  man's  blood  tingles  with 
hope,  desire,  achievement ;  nor  in  those  only,  save 
as  the  end  is  wisely  proposed,  the  labor  successfully 
consummated. 

All  that  activity,  then,  within  the  field  of  religion 
by  which  truth  has  struggled  to  cast  off  error,  the 
better  to  abolish  the  worse  tendency,  the  freer  the 
move  servile  one,  appeal  being  taken  to  the  moral 
nature  of  man,  to  his  own  convictions,  is  the  product 
of  ethical  force,  whose  seeds  are  always  in  the  soil, 
and  sure,  when  the  reign  of  winter  relaxes,  to  find 
their  way  to  the  light.  This  appeal,  to  the  individ- 
ual life  may  not  always  be  direct ;  it  may  be  made, 
in  the  first  instance  to  history,  or  to  the  Bible,  or,  as 
by  Voltaire,  to  practical  intelligence  ;  but  it  underlies 
none  the  less  every  other  appeal,  since  history  and 
the  Bible  and  practical  intelligence  must  have  inter- 
pretation ;  and  this  can  only  be  given  by  the  indi- 
vidual to  the  individual.  Even  if  we  abrogate  our 
own  powers  in  behalf  of  those  of  another,  or  those 
of  a  set  of  men,  this  new  bill  of  disfranchisement 
we  must  first  consider,  and  put  to  it  our  own  seal ; 
we  catch  at  least  a  gleam  of  light,  though  we  see  fit 
to  quench  it  again. 

Hence  periods  of  struggle  in  belief  are  pre-emi- 
nently ethical  periods,  and  also  periods  of  intense 
individuality  and  personal  activity,  accompanied 
with  an  exalted  sense  of  power  and  responsibility. 
The  whole  nature  of  man  is  lifted  by  this  inspira- 


72     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

tion  of  independent  guidance  and  government,  this 
walking  alone  with  truth,  this  gathering,  under  the 
eye  and  favor  of  God,  into  his  own  hand  the  lines 
of  control,  and  going  forth  to  achieve  a  life  that 
shall  fulfil  a  private,  and  thus  a  general,  purpose. 
If  there  are  possibilities  in  men,  these  periods  of  lib- 
erty, of  ethical  strength,  of  a  central  movement  for- 
ward, can  not  fail  to  develop  them. 

Nor  do  the  infidelity  and  unbelief  which  are  sure 
to  belong  to  these  eras  of  progress  at  all  militate 
with  this  view  of  the  force  of  the  moral  sentiment, 
they  rather  confirm  it.  Unbelief  that  is  positive, 
that  is  asserted  as  a  right,  that  passes  into  a  crusade, 
does  so  by  virtue  of  the  moral  nature,  directly  and 
indirectly.  Liberty  is  a  claim  and  a  passion  with  it. 
The  mind,  irritated  by  a  perpetual,  persecuting 
tyranny,  wanders  in  mere  wantonness,  for  a  little,  be- 
fore it  will  accept  any  principle  that  may  become  to 
it  a  fresh  yoke  in  the  school  o-f  enforced  belief.  The 
licenses  of  skepticism  are  often  reactions  against  im- 
perious faith ;  as  are  those  of  liberty  the  resent- 
ments which  have  sprung  up  under  the  maddening 
hand  of  irresponsible  power.  The  effervescence  of 
thought  is  due  to  the  revolt  and  ferment  of  the 
moral  nature,  the  nature  which  resents  wrongs  and 
claims  rights,  the  nature  that  thinks  of  the  fitness  of 
thought,  and  with  indignation  of  any  opinion,  creed 
or  custom  that  would  smother  thought.  Whether 
the  mind  of  the  devout  reformer  is  primarily  delighted 
with  the  truth  ;  or,  less  devout,  but  not  less  free,  is 
pleased  with  its  own  exhilarating  search  for  it,  the 
fact  is  the  same  ;  it  is  the  return  of  the  mind  to  its 


INFLUENCE    OF    THE    ETHICAL    ELEMENT.  73 

powers,  its  liberties,  its  responsibilities ;  and  this 
is  an  ethical  victory. 

Even  if  the  point  of  advance  is  one  of"  science, 
of  mere  knowledge,  the  opposition  it  meets  with,  if 
any,  is  likely  to  come  from  the  moral  world,  to  be 
a  religious  anathema  ;  and  the  counter  assertion, 
therefore,  will  necessarily  be  one  resting  on  a  moral 
basis,  the  mind's  right  to  the  truth,  its  right  to  its 
own  powers,  and  to  whatever  God  has  sealed  under 
them  as  its  inheritance  in  his  intellectual  and  spir- 
itual kingdoms.  Liberty  is  the  starting-point  of 
science,  liberty  to  inquire,  accept,  reject ;  but  the 
battles  of  liberty  have  been  fought,  and  must  be 
fought  in  connection  with  religious  truth,  that  truth 
that  involves  immediate  duties  and  dangers,  and  is 
involved  in  all  the  cogent  concerns  of  this  and  an- 
other life.  Hence  the  secondary  struggle  must 
share  the  fortunes  of  the  primary  one,  the  skirmish 
must  go  as  goes  the  battle,  and  we  shall  only  be 
intellectually,  aesthetically  free,  as  we  are  spiritually 
free.  The  ethical  element  finds  place  in  every  con- 
flict because  it  is  so  pervasive,  fundamental ;  and 
while  it  may  seem  merely  to  cover  the  retreat  of 
error,  it  heads  the  advance  of  truth. 

We  have  said,  that  those  who  depreciate  the 
moral  sentiment  should  look  for  excellence  to 
periods  of  superstitious  repose ;  they  may  also  look 
for  it  to  times  of  passive  unbelief,  mere  negation, 
that  cares  little  for  what  it  denies,  and  is  not  even 
earnest  in  the  denial.  Quiet,  tacit  belief  and  un- 
belief fall  off  alike,  though  on  opposite  sides,  from 
ethical  power ;  and  so  far  as  there  is  good  in  either 
4 


74    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

of  them,  any  invention,  any  bold  realization  of  the 
undertakings  or  pleasures  of  life,  we  concede  it  to 
be  the  fruits  of  secondary  impulses  ;  we  make  it 
over  to  purely  intellectual  action. 

How  can  it  be  othervvise  than  that  the  ethical 
sentiment,  as  we  understand  it,  should  be  large- 
minded,  bold,  creative  ;  and  that  all  that  has  been 
creative,  bold,  large-minded  in  any  art,  should,  at 
least  tacitly,  have  claimed  this  liberty,  and  ex- 
ercised this  inspiration.  Secondary  impulses  give 
secondary  qualities,  but  the  primary  impulse  of 
great  and  pervasive  power  is  this  freedom  of  the 
mind,  its  right  to  see,  to  judge,  to  act;  its  sense  of 
a  destiny,  and  of  its  power  to  fulfil  that  destiny. 

We  are  prepared,  then,  to  put  down  as  first,  and 
first  to  consider,  among  those  general  conditions 
which  made  a  great  epoch  out  of  the  Elizabethan 
age,  the  unusual  activity  of  religious,  polemic 
thought,  breaking  the  narrow  bounds  of  minute 
dogma,  and  resuming  its  hold  on  principles.  To 
this  first  influence  we  add,  second,  as  one  with  it,  and 
sustaining  to  it  the  relation  both  of  effect  and  cause, 
the  revival  of  learning,  more  especially  classical 
learning ;  third,  the  earlier  steps  toward  scientific 
progress ;  fourth,  discovery ;  and  fifth,  invention. 
We  shall  speak  of  each  of  these  general  conditions 
from  which  date  our  modern  civilization,  before  we 
turn  to  those  special  causes  which  helped  to  develop 
our  first  creative  period — an  era  so  brilliant  in  itself, 
and  so  influential  on  all  that  have  followed,  that  in 
understanding  it,  we  start  in  possession  of  the  secret 
springs  of  our  consecutive,  literary  history. 


LECTURE   IV. 

Forces  at  work  on  the  First  Creative  Period,  (a)  Activity  of  Re- 
ligious Thought,  (d)  Revival  of  Learning,  {c)  Scientific  De- 
velopment, (d)  Discovery,  (c)  Invention. 

Secondary  Influences,  {a)  Classical  Knowledge,  (d)  Italian  Lit- 
erature, {c)  Quiet  Reign  of  Elizabeth,  {J)  Chivalrous  Senti- 
ment, (e)  Growth  of  Popular  Influence,  {/)  Kinds  of  Lit- 
erature. 

The  ethical  forces  of  the  sixteenth  century,  of 
whose  claims  to  influence  we  have  spoken,  disclosed 
themselves  in  a  religious  struggle  which  affected  the 
entire  Latin  Church,  and  resolved  itself,  in  different 
places  and  between  different  parties,  into  every  de- 
gree and  every  diversity  of  strife.  It  was  a  dissolu- 
tion of  old  beliefs,  with  a  reformation,  under  local 
and  individual  tendencies,  of  many  new  shades  of 
faith.  This,  which  was  the  reproach  of  the  refor- 
mation in  the  eyes  of  the  Catholic,  was  in  fact  its 
chief  merit.  Men  were  not  passed  from  one  over- 
shadowing organization  to  another,  but  were  com- 
pelled, amid  endless  phases  of  belief,  to  think  and 
act  with  relative  independence. 

We  have  in  John  Morley  an  able  and  independ- 
ent witness,  who  says,  in  his  treatise  on  Voltaire, 
"Protestantism  was  indirectly  the  means  of  creat- 
ing and  dispersing  an  atmosphere  of  rationalism, 
in  which  there  speedily  sprang  up  philosophic,  theo- 
logical and  political  influences,  all  of  them  entirely 
antagonistic  to  the  old  order  of  thought  and  insti- 

(75) 


7t)    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

tution.  The  whole  intellectual  temperature  under- 
ivent  a  permanent  change,  that  was  silently  mortal 
to  the  most  flourishing  tenets  of  all  sorts."* 

Whatever  was  the  cause  of  the  great  fruitful- 
ness  in  letters  of  the  last  portion  of  the  sixteenth, 
and  of  the  earlier  half  of  the  seventeenth  century 
no  other  general,  pervasive  force,  searching  into  all 
ranks  and  relations  of  society,  existed  at  that  or 
at  any  subsequent  period  like  this  of  the  Reforma- 
tion. The  leading  events  of  the  political  world  all 
turned  upon  it  for  more  than  a  century.  From  the 
amours  of  Henry  VIII.  to  the  tragedy  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  every  stirring  event  in  English 
history  either  drew  its  passion  from  the  relig- 
ous  sentiment,  or  was  strongly  colored  by  it. 
Foreign  policy  and  domestic  policy  were  alike  in- 
separable from  religion.  The  regency  in  Scot- 
land ;  the  relation  of  England  to  the  Netherlands 
and  to  Spain ;  the  sense  of  power  that  came  to 
her  in  exerting  a  controlling  influence  on  the  con- 
tinent, while  maintaining  peace  in  her  own  borders, 
turned  one  and  all  on  diversities  of  faith.  The 
great  political  names  and  events  of  the  period, 
both  in  England  and  on  the  Continent,  are  indis- 
solubly  interwoven  with  religious  controversies, 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  Charles  V.,  Philip  II.,  Henry 
VIII.,  Mary,  Elizabeth,  the  rise  of  the  Netherlands, 
the  struggle  of  the  Huguenots,  the  settlement  of 
the  new  world,  the  growth  of  constitutional  liberty 
in  England. 

Nor  was  the  influence  of  religious  differences  in 

*  Voltaire,  p.  86. 


UKSIKLCTIUN     OK    Tllli    MONASTERIES.  // 

the  domestic  relations  of  England  less  manifest. 
To  say  nothing  of  that  perpetual  strife,  passing 
under  Mary  into  an  extensive  and  bloody  perse- 
cution, which  pervaded  English  social  and  politi- 
cal relations  during  the  sixteenth  century,  on  the 
ground  of  conflicting  faiths  and  rituals,  what  one 
change  could  have  been  more  sweeping,  or  have 
altered,  in  a  more  striking  way,  the  face  of  society, 
than  the  overthrow  of  the  monasteries,  so  numer- 
ous and  so  venerable.  A  measure  of  this  char- 
acter, wholesale  and  sudden,  was  attended  with 
very  mixed  results.  It  greatly  diminished  the 
popular  reverence  for  religious  orders,  and  rapidly 
reduced  their  hold  on  the  public  mind,  both  by 
the  exposure  of  the  corruption  of  these  institutions, 
of  the  religious  tricks  which  had  been  practiced  in 
them  on  the  credulity  of  the  masses,  and  also  by 
that  sudden  loss  of  prestige,  which,  with  the  many, 
attends  on  misfortune.  The  burden  of  a  large  un- 
productive class  was  lifted  from  the  people,  and 
industry  and  independence  gained  a  victory  over 
indolence,  deception  and  exaction.  For  these 
gains  there  were  compensations.  Valuable  manu- 
scripts may  have  been  lost ;  communities,  in  part 
devoted  to  scholarship,  to  popular  instruction,  and 
to  charity,  were  broken  up;  and  the  support  of 
the  most  worthless  and  vagrant  of  the  monks  was 
shifted,  not  escaped.  No  well  rooted  abuse  gives 
way  without  tearing  up  the  soil  somewhat,  and  in- 
volving local  interests  in  its  fall. 

The  direct  literary  influence  of  the  Reformation 
is  nowhere  more  manifest  than  in  England.     The 


yS     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

h  stcry  of  the  English  Bible  presents  it  in  the 
clearest  light.  Our  present  version  has  held  un- 
questioned supiemacy  for  more  than  two  centuries 
and  a  half;  has  been  found,  in  later  periods,  in 
almost  every  English  household ;  has  received 
weekly  enforcement  from  innumerable  pulpits  ; 
and  been  the  direct  occasion  of  a  large  share  of 
the  printed  matter  that  has  come  from  the  English 
press.  It  has  thus  exerted  a  literary  influence, 
greater  in  volume  beyond  all  comparison  than  has 
fallen  to  any  other  book.  The  works  of  Shake- 
speare may  have  affected  single  minds,  from  a 
literary  point  of  view,  more  strongly  than  the  Bible, 
but  ihe  style  and  language  of  our  version,  aside 
from  its  religious  authority,  have  exercised  a  con- 
trol incalculably  greater  on  our  general  literature. 
We  may  instance  Bunyan's  Allegories,  whose 
merits  have  never  been  surpassed  in  their  own 
field,  as  among  those  productions  which  have 
sprung  directly  from  the  Scriptures,  bulblets  half 
inclosed  in  the  parent  bulb.  No  such  complete 
and  prosperous  dependence  can  elsewhere  be  found 
in  our  literary  history,  as  this  between  the  Bible 
and  many  of  its  literary  offspring.  This  version, 
so  infl'iential,  arose  with  coi responding  painstaking, 
and  under  a  most  fortunate  concurrence  of  influ- 
ences. Tyndale,  by  his  translation  of  1525,  began 
the  work.  The  masculine  vigor  of  the  man,  the  sim- 
plicity and  earnestness  of  his  purpose,  and  its  popu- 
lar bent,  together  with  the  prevalent  Saxon  features 
of  our  speech,  united  to  give  this  early  and  most 
influential  rendering  of  the  Scriptures  an  idiomatic 


TRANSLATIONS    OF    THE    BIBLE.  79 

force  and  directness  which  it  helped  to  impart  to  all 
the  versions  that  followed,  and  the  more  easily  as 
many  of  these  arose  under  kindred  conditions.  For 
nearly  a  hundred  years,  version  followed  version, 
with  constant  comparison,  and  with  a  firm  hold  on 
previous  and  cotemporary  work.  At  length  with 
fearless  revision,  yet  with  deserved  deference  to 
former  editions,  appeared  the  authorized  version, 
the  fruits  of  the  ripest  scholarship,  at  home  and 
abroad.  The  labors  of  the  century  were  gathered 
up  in  it.  Catholics,  churchmen,  dissenters,  men 
of  varying  belief,  had  virtually  labored  upon  it. 
The  hands  of  martyrs  had  wrought  in  it,  Tyndale, 
Rogers,  Cranmer ;  and  so  it  prospered  by  violence 
and  by  favor,  till  at  length  it  came  forward  under 
the  solemn  endorsement  of  the  English  Church, 
and  tacitly  of  the  nation,  its  own  work  through  its 
most  devout  scholars,  its  varied  beliefs,  and  the 
years  of  its  most  intense  religious  life.  It  has 
thus  grown  into  a  reverence  and  honor  among 
us,  which  lead  us  to  draw  back  from  change,  and 
to  forget,  when  further  revision  is  thought  of,  that 
bold  diligence  to  which  its  own  merits  are  due. 

Correspondingly  did  the  Bible  gain  in  general 
influence.  In  1543  the  translations  of  Tyndale  were 
proscribed  by  parliament.  Any  portion  of  the 
Bible,  under  penalty  of  imprisonment,  was  denied 
to  "women  (except  noble  or  gentle  women),,  artif- 
icers, apprentices,  journeymen,  serving  men,  hus- 
bandmen, and  laborers."  This  was  a  remnant  of 
the  hostility  with  which  his  work  had  been  met  at 
the  outset.     But  previously  to  this,  the  Great  Bible 


So    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

had  been  opened  in  the  churches  for  public  reading, 
and  many  earnest  and  disputatious  groups  had 
gathered  about  it.  "  Classes  and  households  were 
divided.  On  the  one  side  were  the  stern  citizens 
of  tiie  old  school,  to  whom  change  seemed  to  be 
the  beginning  of  license  ;  on  the  other  young  men 
burning  with  zeal  to  carry  to  the  utmost  the  spirit 
ual  freedom  of  which  they  had  caught  sight."* 

The  withholding  of  one  rendering  only  gave  oc- 
casion to  another ;  and  that  the  partisans  of  both  the 
Bishop's  Bible  and  the  Geneva  version,  represent- 
ing the  extremes  of  religious  sentiment,  should 
finally  have  accepted  King  James'  version  is  a 
proof  of  the  candor  and  carefulness  that  gathered 
into  it  the  excellencies  of  previous  work.  A  wider 
circulation  of  the  Scriptures,  a  more  profound  in- 
terest in  them,  and  a  better  understanding  of  them, 
were  thus  the  fruits  of  the  jealous  advocacy,  the 
earnest  attack  and  defense  of  successive  editions. 
That  a  kindred  spirit  prevailed  on  the  continent, 
though  in  a  less  degree,  is  seen  in  the  fact,  that, 
in  addition  to  Latin  versions,  a  French,  an  English, 
an  Italian,  and  a  Spanish  Bible,  proceeded,  in  a 
brief  period,  from  Geneva  and  Basle. 

Incident  to  this  religious  activity,  this  earnest 
and  critical  study  of  the  Scriptures,  there  was  a 
large  amount  of  theological  composition.  Writers 
of  this  class  have  always  been  numerous  in  Eng- 
land. It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  productions  of 
but  very  few  of  them  have  obtained  an  acknowl- 
edged position  in  our  literature,  but  they  have  not 

♦  History  of  the  English  Bible,  p.  no. 


THEOLOGICAL    COMPOSITION.  8l 

for  that  reason  failed  to  have  a  powerful  hold  on  the 
national  mind.  Forces  for  the  moment  very  effi- 
cient, frequently  miss  any  direct  mastery  over  later 
periods.  They  reach  these  in  their  influence  only 
by  being  absorbed  into  earlier  times,  and  thus 
welling  the  stream  as  it  flows  by.  Immediate  and 
remote  control  turn  on  different  principles.  If  one 
is  so  in  sympathy  with  his  own  generation  as  to 
impress  himself  strongly,  actively  upon  it,  he  almost 
necessarily  passes  away  with  it.  If  one,  in  his 
works,  catches  a  prophetic  forecast  of  coming  truth, 
or  an  excellence  of  art  that  has  not  been  reached, 
he  naturally  fails  of  appreciation  by  those  about 
him,  and  waits  for  the  opening  doors  of  a  coming 
century  before  he  finds  his  own  audience.  Each 
man  casts  anchor  as  he  may,  early  or  later  in  the 
stream  of  human  life,  and  holds  fast  where  first, 
with  ploughing  flukes,  he  begins  to  grapple  the 
popular  mind.  Most  theological  composition  springs 
from  a  present  exigency  of  thought,  and  tarries 
with  its  direct  work  in  the  times  which  evoke  it. 
Nevertheless,  in  shaping  those  times,  it  is  most 
efficient,  most  diffusive,  and,  above  all  forms  of 
production,  gives  that  undertone  of  social  senti- 
ment by  which  artistic  work  is  to  be  controlled. 
What  the  Raphaels  of  the  world  are  to  paint  is  de- 
termined by  what  they  find  in  it,  in  its  heart,  its 
affections,  when  they  come.  What  the  Miltons 
of  the  world  are  to  sing  must  be  settled  by  the 
themes  which  win  men's  thoughts.  Theological 
composition,  therefore,  has  always  affected  literature 
beyond  its  literary  merit,  since  it  has  not  been 
4* 


82     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

by  this  merit  that  it  has  acted,  but  by  the  moral 
tonic  there  has  chanced  to  be  in  it  for  men's  minds. 
Great  waves  spring  up  only  on  deep  and  large 
waters ;  theology  deepens  and  broadens  that  intel- 
ligence whose  rise  and  fall  in  atc  constitute  the 
record  of  literature. 

Polemics  are  not  instantly  favorable  to  literary 
art,  but  rather  the  reverse.  It  is  not  till  the  first 
crackling  flame  abates,  and  genial,  ruddy  coals  re- 
main on  the  hearth,  that  men  settle  down  with  slip- 
pered feet  into  that  state,  at  once  active  and  placid, 
that  favors  art.  The  headstrong  impulses  of  re- 
form are  unfavorable,  in  their  first  expenditure,  to 
the  coy,  creative  play  of  the  imagination ;  but,  if 
successful,  they  are  sure  to  be  followed  by  the  suit- 
ors of  art,  entering  gayly  into  the  larger  life  that 
has  been  won  for  them.  In  a  general  way,  the  na- 
tions of  Europe  rank  in  literature  according  as  their 
moral  life  has  issued  in  honest,  searching  specula- 
tion, or  in  blind  belief  and  unbelief.  It  has  been 
characteristic  of  Italy  and  Spain,  that  they  have 
fallen,  in  a  powerless,  unfruitful  way,  into  supersti- 
■  tion  and  infidelity,  each  passive  and  hopeless  like 
the  other ;  and  neither  of  these  states  have  reached 
the  literary  life  of  which  they  gave  the  promise. 
France  has  had  a  bolder,  more  decisive  infidelity, 
provoking  a  more  critical  and  earnest  belief,  and 
she  has  ripened  a  correspondingly  extended  litera- 
ture. Germany  has  been  held,  especially  in  mod- 
ern times,  in  vigorous  conflict  by  a  most  searching 
and  critical  belief  and  unbelief,  and  her  intellectual 
labors  have  been  prodigious,  her  literature  surpass- 


THEOLOGICAL    INFLUENCE.  83 

ingly  fruitful.  England,  above  all  European  nations, 
has  been  marked  by  sober,  thoughtful,  predominant 
belief,  often  disturbed,  but  never  shaken,  by  skepti- 
cism ;  and  she  presents  a  literature  certainly  as 
varied,  as  abundant,  as  continuous,  as  powerful  as 
that  of  any  other  nation.  The  foundations  of  this 
ethical  strength  were  laid  in  English  society,  just 
previous  to  the  Elizabethan  period,  the  first  creative 
period  in  our  literary  art. 

The  traces  of  this  theological  action  are  also  in 
our  language.  A  large  accession  of  words  of 
Latin  origin  came  to  it  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  style  of  More  and  Ascham,  of  the  early  part 
of  the  century,  is  purer  and  simpler  than  that  of 
the  prose  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  There 
are  in  these,  both  an  increase  of  Latin  words,  and 
a  more  complex,  involved  construction.  An  easy 
narrative  style  gives  place  to  one  of  weighty  and 
complicated  thought,  to  assertions  laden,  not  merely 
with  a  primary  purpose,  but  with  many  secondary 
and  qualifying  ideas.  The  sentences  often  march 
with  a  heavy  regimental  tread,  as  if  each  were  a 
section,  or  a  company,  in  itself.  They  drag  along 
formidable  words,  and  loosely  attached  clauses,  like 
heavy  guns,  and  are  only  saved  from  being  tedious 
and  cumbersome  by  the  vigor  of  the  thought,  or  the 
vividness  of  the  imagery.  Grammatical  relations 
are  not  simple,  or  closely  knit,  and  sometimes  fail 
altogether.  This  tendency  to  roll  up  the  sentence 
in  masses,  this  plethoric  habit  of  thought,  a  con- 
struction crowded  full  of  conditions  and  adjuncts, 
with  its  natural  accompaniment  of  a  Latin  vocabu- 


84    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

lary,  belonged  to  prose  composition  all  through  this 
first  creative  period.  This  style  was  the  product 
of  vigorous  thought,  of  active  and  uncritical  facul- 
ties, that  delivered  sentiments  in  the  gross,  waiting 
for  a  period  of  more  leisure  and  art  to  break  them 
up,  sort  and  arrange  them 

The  following  passage  from  the  Areopagitica  of 
Milton,  illustrates  the  swelling  sentence,  the  fresh 
spring  torrent  of  thought. 

"  First,  when  a  City  shall  be  as  it  were  besieg'd 
and  blockt  about,  her  navigable  river  infested,  in- 
rodes  and  incursions  round,  defiance  and  battell  oft 
rumor'd  to  be  marching  up  ev'n  to  her  walls,  and 
suburb  trenches,  that  then  the  people,  or  the 
greater  part,  more  then  at  other  times,  wholly  tak'n 
up  with  the  study  of  highest  and  most  important 
matters  to  be  reform'd,  should  be  disputing,  reason- 
ing, reading,  inventing,  discoursing,  ev'n  to  a  rarity, 
and  admiration,  things  not  before  discourst  or 
written  of,  argues  first  a  singular  good  will,  con- 
tentednesse  and  confidence  in  your  prudent  fore- 
sight and  safe  government,  Lords  and  Commons ; 
and  from  thence  derives  it  self  to  a  gallant  bravery 
and  well  grounded  contempt  of  their  enemies,  as  if 
there  were  no  small  number  of  as  great  spirits 
among  us,  as  his  was,  who  when  Rome  was  nigh 
besieg'd  by  Hanibal,  being  in  the  City,  bought  that 
peece  of  ground  at  no  cheap  rate,  whereon  Hanibal 
himself  encampt  his  own  regiment." 

While  the  revival  of  classical  learning  tended  to 
these  results  in  style,  they  were  in  part  also  the 
fruit   of  polemics.     Theological   discussion   has  so 


HOOKER.  85 

mucA  of  it  taken  place  in  Latin,  that  its  vocabulary 
is  closely  united  to  that  language  ;  while  its  logical 
forms  of  assertion  and  limitation,  statement  and  ex- 
•.".eption,  tend  to  involved  and  composite  sentences. 
Hooker,  the  first  great  prose  writer  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age,  shows  the  best  results  of  the  theologi- 
cal habit  of  mind.  Sound,  searching  and  liberal  in 
thought,  he  presents  a  style  massive,  semi-fluent, 
pushing  and  formidable ;  yet  from  time  to  time 
breaking  into  a  more  easy  and  animated  flow.  By 
universal  consent,  he  takes  rank  among  great  Eng- 
lish writers.  A  tendency  which  could  thus  early 
ripen  an  author  of  so  much  power  and  skill,  could 
get  to  itself  such  a  head,  vindicates  easily  and  at 
once  its  claims  to  large  literary  influence. 

The  second  agency  which  gave  the  conditions  of 
the  creative  period  was  the  revival  of  classical  learn- 
ing. Greek  scholars  and  literature  were  cordi- 
ally entertained  in  Italy  early  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  The  overthrow  of  Constantinople,  in 
the  middle  of  that  century,  merely  accelerated  a 
movement  already  well  under  way.  A  progress 
in  classical  learning  followed,  which,  during  this 
and  the  following  century,  with  a  fluctuating  move- 
ment, extended  throughout  Western  Europe,  Eng 
land  being  among  the  latest  to  feel  it.  This  classical 
scholarship  stood  in  diverse  relations,  at  different 
places  and  different  times,  to  the  spirit  of  reform. 
It  preceded  and  accompanied  it,  rather  than  fol- 
lowed it,  in  Europe.  In  Italy,  the  popes  welcomed 
this  revival,  and  it  there  chiefly  accelerated  art,  then 
passing  forward  to  its  great  achievements.     Art  felt 


S6     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

a  double  tendency,  a  Christian  bias  and  a  classical 
one,  or — in  contrasted  language — a  pagan  one.  It 
gave  itself,  on  the  one  side,  with  devout  belief  to 
religious  themes,  and,  on  the  other,  to  the  resusci- 
tation of  Greek  and  Latin  mythology.  When  en- 
countered by  no  strong  reformatory  current,  classi- 
cal knowledge  tended  to  this  division  of  effects. 
Some  added  it  as  mere  culture  to  previous  charac- 
ter ;  and  others,  awakened  as  from  a  dream  to  this 
wonderful  Greek  and  Roman  world,  so  full  of  civili- 
zation and  art,  yet  without  a  Christian  faith,  them- 
selves lost  the  sense  of  necessity  and  certainty  in 
their  creed,  and  became  skeptical  of  a  system  that 
could  in  so  many  things  be  taught  of  the  past. 
Classical  art  and  classical  letters,  so  alien  to  Chris- 
tianity, could  not  win  their  sesthetical  hold  on  the 
sentiments  without  weakening  the  foundations  of 
belief  already  feeble,  and  introducing  feelings  quite 
out  of  harmony  both  with  the  purity  and  the  cre- 
dulity of  former  faiths.  Thus  there  was  an  opportu- 
nity given  for  the  formation  of  an  opinion  adverse  to 
the  classics,  as  impure,  irreligious,  heathenish. 

There  was  another,  however,  and  very  different 
relation  which  this  knowledge  came  to  assume.  The 
appeal  being  very  universally  taken  by  reform  to 
the  Scriptures,  a  spirit  of  searching  inquiry  into 
these  sources  of  truth  sprang  up.  An  extended 
acquaintance  with  Latin  and  Greek  became  a  ne- 
cessity to  the  reformer,  if  he  would  master  old,  or 
form  new,  versions  of  the  Bible ;  and  classical 
scholarship  allied  itself  closely,  in  Erasmus,  Luther, 
Heza,  Tyndale,  and  many  others,  to  the  Reforma- 


CLASSICAL    LEARNING.  87 

don.  This  was  especially  true  in  England,  so  that 
to  call  one  a  Greek,  a  lover  of  Greek  letters,  was 
equivalent  to  pronouncing  him  a  heretic.  While 
this  was  the  deepest  and  the  prevailing  affinity  of 
the  new  culture,  it  met  with  variable  favor  accord- 
ing to  the  wisdom  of  times  and  parties. 

Classical  learning,  then,  both  by  belief  and  un- 
belief, both  as  an  instrument  and  a  discovery,  as 
giving  a  deeper  hold  on  the  facts  of  revelation  and 
redisclosing  the  facts  of  an  earlier  world,  wrought 
liberty,  enthusiasm,  progress.  Greek  and  Latin 
letters  have  ever  since  been  strongly  influential  on 
English  literature,  with  a  power  varying  primarily 
with  the  knowledge  and  tastes  of  the  individual,  and 
secondarily  with  the  age  to  which  he  has  belonged. 

An  unfavorable  literary  result  of  this  revival  of 
knowledge,  were  the  conceits  and  pedantry  of  style 
to  which  it  led.  Not  only  was  the  language  em- 
barrassed and  choked  with  its  new  words,  remote 
allusions,  tricks  of  expression,  dodges  of  thought, 
became  popular,  and  vitiated,  in  a  measure,  the 
composition  of  even  the  best  writers.  Knowledge 
overpowered  invention,  and  the  resources  of  ex- 
pression its  simplicity  and  purity.  This  tendency, 
in  an  earlier  form,  is  especially  traceable  to  Lilly, 
and  from  one  of  his  works  is  named  Euphuism. 
He  himself  characterizes  it  as  a  thing  of  "fine 
phrases,  smooth  quips,  merry  taunts,  jesting  with- 
out meane  and  mirth  without  measure."  Later, 
assuming  the  form  of  pedantry  and  a  play  upon 
words,  it  constituted  a  distinguishing  feature  of  the 
school  of  writers  termed  metaphysical.    It  evidently 


88     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE, 

finds  no  direct  support  in  classical  composition,  nor 
indeed  in  any  knowledge,  but  was  rather  a  fashion, 
springing  from  a  pedantic  and  facetious  play  of 
thought,  with  resources  not  yet  wholly  bent  to 
simple  and  worthy  service. 

A  next  general  force,  though  as  yet  very  feeble, 
were  the  incipient  movements  of  science.  These 
were  felt  in  Italy  as  early  as  the  close  of  the  fif- 
teenth century.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  was  followed 
in  the  sixteenth  century  by  Galileo,  whose  labors 
gave  rise  at  the  opening  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury to  a  vigorous  Italian  school  in  natural  philoso- 
phy. Copernicus  and  Tycho  Brahe  and  Kepler 
were  taking  the  first  steps  of  progress  in  Germany. 
Natural  science  did  not  achieve  large  results  in 
England  till  the  next  period ;  but  it  now  found  at 
least  one  great  mind  in  sympathy  with  its  spirit 
and  methods,  and  able  to  expound  them.  All  rec- 
ognize the  wonderful  force  of  thought  that  be- 
longed to  Bacon.  Craik  thus  chronicles  the  gen- 
eral impression: — "They  who  have  not  seen  his 
greatness  under  one  form  have  discovered  it  in  an- 
other ;  there  is  a  discordance  among  men's  ways 
of  looking  at  him,  or  their  theories  respecting  him ; 
but  the  mighty  shadow  which  he  projects  athwart 
the  two  by-gone  centuries  lies  there  immovable,  and 
still  extending  as  time  extends."  *  This  command- 
ing position  was  gained,  not  by  actual  discoveries, 
not  by  a  sufficient,  much  less  a  final,  exposition  of 
the  laws  of  progress ;  but  by  a  thorough  and 
large  apprehension  of  the   general  character  and 

*  English  Literature  and  Language,  vol.  i.  p.  613. 


BACON.  89 

value  of  the  new  inductive  method,  which  had 
scarcely  come  into  clear  appreciation  even  with 
those  who  were  using  it ;  was  directly  opposed  to 
prevalent  modes  ot  .nquiry ;  and  was  destined,  by 
its  expansion  in  every  department  of  science,  to 
rule  the  future,  and  constitute  its  chief  glory.  In- 
ductive as  opposed  to  deductive  reasoning ;  obser- 
vation as  contrasted  with  speculation;  a  careful, 
cautious  inquiry  into  things  as  compared  with  logo- 
machy, a  loose  legerdemain  of  words,  had  as  yet 
found  no  sufficient  presentation.  This  task  fell  to 
Bacon.  He  thus  confirmed  and  hastened  on  the 
new  movement  by  justifying  it  to  itself,  by  bring- 
ing it  into  the  presence  of  a  clear  and  well-sus- 
tained theory,  and  by  exalting  its  immediate  and 
practical  value.  Those  who  came  after  Bacon  in 
natural  science,  both  in  England  and  elsewhere, 
were  glad  to  recognize  this  statement  and  defense 
of  their  method,  and  accept  the  force  of  this  great 
mind,  which  had  made  a  way  for  them  ;  which  had 
pronounced,  with  such  insight  and  power,  upon  the 
bent  and  value  of  the  new  philosophy.  Bacon  thus 
practically  announced,  compacted  and  organized  an 
intellectual  movement,  the  most  fresh  and  fruitful 
of  any  within  the  Christian  era.  It  mattered  little 
that  he  unduly  depreciated  the  deductive  logic; 
that  he  missed  of  seeing  that  it  makes  up  with  in- 
duction the  double  enginery  of  thought ;  that  Aris- 
totle commands  a  moiety  of  the  realm  of  mind  :  it 
it  mattered  little  that  he  failed  skilfully  to  use  his 
own  system,  or  master  its  details  of  application  ;  he 
did  conceive  clearly,  vigorously  the  new  direction. 


90    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

the  new  purpose,  the  new  method  of  inquiry,  and, 
establishing  and  defending  it,  he  passed  it  over  to 
others  to  develop  and  apply.  In  this  later  genera- 
tions have  busied  themselves,  and,  surprised  anew 
in  every  decade  with  the  abundance  of  their  re- 
turns, they  yield  larger  and  larger  honor  to  him, 
who,  in  such  ringing,  penetrating  tones,  proclaimed 
"fruit "as  the  object  and  test  of  inquiry.  Bacon 
fell  in  readily  with  the  external,  practical  cast  of 
British  thought ;  nay,  he  gave  it  the  most  emphatic 
and  influential  statement  it  has  ever  received.  He 
looked  upon  the  mastery  of  the  physical  world  as 
a  great  end  of  knowledge,  saw  how  careful  and 
thorough  must  be  the  observation  which  should 
lead  to  this  result;  how  cautious  must  be  that 
transfer  of  things  to  thoughts,  of  objective  realities 
into  appropriate  conceptions  and  language,  if  we 
would  not  have  our  reasoning  illusion,  a  dodging 
from  one  empty  form  of  expression  to  another  ;  and 
how  many  prejudgments,  the  mere  debris  of  habit, 
individual  or  social,  hide  the  truth,  and  require  to 
be  cleared  away  before  the  virgin  rock  is  again  laid 
bare. 

Bacon,  indeed,  failed  to  understand  the  scope 
of  his  philosophy,  the  varied  resources,  the  diversi- 
fied ingenuity  of  thought,  with  which  it  was  to  be 
carried  into  all  branches  of  physical  knowledge ; 
but  this  was  a  matter  of  course,  since  the  centuries 
that  have  intervened  have  only  partially  revealed 
the  subtile  analysis  and  diversity  of  method  requi- 
site in  the  different  lines  of  inquiry. 

While  Bacon  gave  this  positive  push  to  physical 


BACON.  91 

science,  he  indirectly  affected  less  favorably  intel- 
lectual and  moral  science.  His  influence  tended 
to  the  oversight  of  that  large  element  of  deduction, 
which  mental  philosophy  must  always  present ;  and 
to  fasten  on  ethics  the  utilitarian  temper  that  per- 
vades physical  inquiry.  We  may  look  upon  him  as 
indirectly  a  source  of  that  materialistic  philosophy 
and  those  prudential  morals  which  have  found  so 
much  acceptance  with  Englishmen.  We  would 
make  no  unkind  inference,  but  in  Bacon's  own  his- 
tory, utility,  in  the  low  bent  of  its  aims,  egregiously 
miscarried,  and  a  life  of  magnificent  scope  and  con- 
comitants fell  into  reproach  and  shameful  estimate. 
Bacon  lacked  practically,  as  he  did  theoretically, 
the  upward  bias  of  pure  reason  ;  insight  into  tran- 
scendental truths,  letting  drop  their  motives  from 
heaven,  not  gleaning  them  in  prudent  husbandry 
from  the  earth. 

The  religious  and  the  scientific  spirit  thus  fur- 
nished to  the  Elizabethan  age  its  two  great  prose 
writers,  Hooker  and  Bacon,  and  from  that  time 
onward,  the  passing  collisions  and  slow  coalescence 
of  these  two  tendencies  have  been  most  fruitful  in 
thought.  Science  has  been  aggressive,  religion  has 
stood  on  the  defence,  and  deeper  insight,  sounder 
opinion,  more  philanthropic  sentiment,  have  sprung 
from  the  conflict.  In  style,  Bacon  united  to  logical 
power  a  vigorous  imagination.  Language  thus  com- 
pounded, like  transparent  glass,  lets  in  not  only  light, 
but  with  it,  and  incidental  to  it,  image  after  image 
from  the  outside  world,  and  makes  of  vision  a  feast 
t^  the  soul.     His  essays  best  present  him  as  a  writer 


92     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

A  fourth  general  force,  rousing  the  national  mind 
to  activity,  was  the  national  enterprise,  thti  geo- 
graphical discoveries  of  the  period.  We  can  hardly 
appreciate  the  mental  expansion,  the  breaking  down 
of  boundaries,  the  sudden  rarity,  that  came  to 
thought  by  the  discovery  of  the  new  world  ;  or  the 
precision  and  unity  imparted  to  geography  and  as- 
tronomy by  the  circumnavigation  of  the  globe. 
The  diameter  of  the  globe,  a  first  unit,  a  standard 
of  reference  in  celestial  calculations,  was  thus  se- 
cured ;  and  we  might  now  know  from  what  we  went 
forth,  and  to  what  we  returned.  Classical  learning 
restored  the  by-gone  world,  exploration  disclosed  a 
new  world,  laden  with  new  hopes  for  the  future  ;  a 
fresh  realm  of  romance  and  possibilities  brought 
along  side,  moored  to,  the  old  historic  continent, 
exhausted  and  wayworn.  The  English,  in  the  last 
portion  of  the  sixteenth  century,  were  entering 
heartily  into  these  discoveries,  were  full  of  the  in- 
quiring, adventuresome  spirit  they  begot.  They 
added  enterprise  to  discovery,  and,  as  in  Drake, 
helped  themselves  to  Spanish  wealth,  as  opportunity 
offered,  with  a  temper  as  unscrupulous  as  that  with 
which  the  Spaniard  won  it.  At  no  time  has  the 
world  seen  more  daring  and  resolute  navigators, 
mingling  large  and  petty  motives  into  enthusiastic, 
werviceable  character.  Drake,  Frobisher,  Davis, 
Raleigh  led  the  nation  in  that  maritime  enterprise, 
which  has  ever  since  given  expansion  to  the  na- 
tional character.  The  additions  which  such  a  tem- 
per brings  to  literature  may  not  be  very  palpable, 
and  in  their  most  palpable  forms  are  no  sufficient 


INVENTION.  93 

index  of  the  entire  effect.  The  nautical  novel  has  m 
part  expressed  this  predilection  of  Englishmen,  and 
serves  to  show  how  bold  and  breezy  national  tastes 
have  been  kept  by  this  love  of  the  sea.  The  poet- 
ry, the  direct  results  of  these  sympathies,  as  Byron's 
apostrophe  to  the  ocean,  offers,  in  an  outspoken 
form,  what  is  always  a  latent  element  in  Englis' 
character,  imparting  scope  and  strength  to  feeling. 
A  final  agency  we  have  to  mention  as  introdu- 
cing the  new  epoch  is  invention.  The  two  early 
inventions,  the  conditions  of  later  ones,  giving 
general  safety  and  general  knowledge,  were  slowly 
working  their  effects  into  and  transforming  so- 
ciety. Gunpowder  and  the  printing  press,  both 
democratic,  the  one  lifting  up  the  middle  class  in 
intelligence,  the  other  tumbling  down  the  aris- 
tocratic class  from  their  pedestal  of  personal 
prowess,  unhorsing  them  with  utmost  ease  as  they 
pranced  on  their  mail-clad  chargers,  were  progress- 
ing in  serviceableness,  adding  to  themselves  those 
concomitant  inventions,  on  which  their  value  de- 
pends. Cannon  and  small  arms  in  the  one  direc- 
tion, paper,  type,  and  their  easy  mechanical  appli- 
cation in  use  in  the  other,  grew  out  of  these 
initial  steps,  and  have  again  and  again  shifted 
their  forms  and  methods  of  production,  as  these 
inventions  have  shown  the  power  that  is  in  them. 
In  the  Elizabethan  period  these  secondary  steps 
were  well  under  way,  and  the  blind  giants  of  me- 
chanical force  were  getting  to  work  at  those  stu- 
pendous labors  they  have  since  accomplished.  As 
warming  up  by  their  activity,  they  make   contemp- 


94    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

tible  all  previous  exertion  by  that  which  follows, 
we  are  ready  to  cry,  Hold,  this  will  ruin  us ;  an- 
other book,  another  paper,  and  we  are  buried  in 
hopeless  ignorance  under  this  multiplicity  of  the 
material  of  knowledge  ;  another  monitor,  another 
needle-gun,  another  mitrailleuse,  and  we  are  un- 
done, having  lost  all  our  labors  thus  far,  and  sunk 
the  value  of  past  production  in  this  omnipotence  of 
a  too  headlong,  incautious  present. 

The  success  of  the  reformation  was  due,  in 
large  part,  to  the  aid  given  it  by  the  press.  New 
versions  of  the  Bible,  rapidly  scattered,  gained  and 
confirmed  the  popular  mind.  Persecution  was  far 
less  efficient,  and  it  became  impossible  to  hunt  out 
and  eradicate  the  multiplied  and  inconspicuous  mes- 
sengers of  reform.  The  incentives  to  literary  labor 
were  also  slowly  on  the  gain.  Authorship  ceased 
comparatively  to  be  an  expense,  gradually  became 
remunerative,  and  now  may  bring  a  princely  for- 
tune. There  came  to  it  also  a  compensation  quite 
as  valuable,  the  pleasure  of  wide  influence,  of  send- 
ing out  a  work  that  should  go  in  a  silent  way  to  un- 
known households,  and  bespeak  the  kind  attention 
of  strangers.  The  intellectual  world  was  gathered 
in  large  assemblies  by  this  invention,  and  listened 
with  redoubled  interest  to  the  rapid  responses 
drawn  out. 

Gunpowder  brought  to  an  end  barbaric  inunda- 
tions ;  gave  the  civilized  nations  a  vast  superiority 
over  the  uncivilized ;  put  them  in  easy  immediate 
possession  of  the  world,  as  the  Spaniaids  and  I^ng- 
Ush  on  this  continent;  between  themselves  lodged 


INVENTION.  95 

power  with  those  most  progressive,  and  inventive; 
transferred  the  arts  of  war  yet  more  from  the  body 
to  the  mind ;  and,  without  exorcising  the  savage 
fiend  of  strife,  put  restraint  upon  it,  and  made  it 
more  just  in  its  awards.  Not  only  was  the  civilized 
world  made  impregnable  to  barbarism,  and  barbar- 
ism surrendered  everywhere  to  civilization ;  not 
only  did  invention  become  the  basis  of  power ;  the 
physically  weak  were  armed  with  weapons  that 
made  them  formidable,  and  mere  bullying  became 
comparatively  impracticable.  Invention,  the  best 
product  of  the  laboring  mind,  took  increasing  pos- 
session of  that  mind,  gave  it  thoughtfulness,  and 
weight  in  the  councils  of  men,  and  made  it  heedful 
of  the  intellectual  life  about  it.  Invention,  commit- 
ting the  implements  of  war  to  the  hands  of  industry, 
rendered  national  wealth  an  essential  feature  of  na- 
tional power.  War  became  a  question  of  finance ; 
and  the  manufacturer,  merchant,  broker,  citizen, 
proportionately  gained  power  in  its  decisions.  Those 
who  created,  and  those  who  held,  wealth,  were  prime 
factors  in  the  product  of  national  greatness  ;  a  city, 
a  seat  of  industry,  became  a  centre  of  strength  ;  and 
the  productive,  economic  forces,  gaining  their  true 
position,  lifted  up  with  them  the  popular  element. 

No  later  inventions  are  comparable  with  these 
initial  ones,  in  their  transforming  character,  unless 
it  be  that  of  the  application  of  steam  as  a  motive 
power.  This  has  wonderfully  compacted  the  world  ; 
shifted  its  centres  and  methods  ;  and  permeated  it 
everywhere  with  the  most  rapid,  interlaced  and 
compositQ  circulations.    But  these  gains,  marvellous 


g6    THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

as  they  are,  would  have  been  utterly  impossible 
without  the  previous  safety,  science  and  civilization 
due  to  gunpowder  and  the  printing  press. 

Such  were  the  general  and  growing  conditions 
of  activity  in  this  creative  period.  A  wakeful  at- 
tention had  come  to  men  in  all  departments,  and 
while  in  religion  they  were  claiming  the  rule  of 
their  own  spirits;  in  science,  discovery,  invention, 
they  had  entered  on  the  rule  of  the  world. 

We  have  now  occasion  to  speak  but  briefly  of 
the  foreign  and  domestic  influences  which  acted  in 
a  more  limited  way  on  the  Elizabethan  age.  Chief 
among  the  first  was  classical  scholarship.  The 
most  vigorous  translation  of  Homer,  that  of  Chap- 
man, belongs  to  this  period.  The  great  poets  were 
either  thoroughly  permeated  with  the  classical  spirit, 
and  laden  with  its  poetical  images  and  myths,  like 
Milton ;  or  were,  like  Shakespeare,  cognizant  of  these 
works  of  the  past  as  standards  of  taste,  and  an  un- 
failing source  of  material.  No  poet  was  so  inde- 
pendent as  not  to  feel  somewhat  this  restored  life, 
and  the  most  commanding  drew  on  its  wealth  with 
the  utmost  freedom.  The  nearer  and  freer  le- 
gends of  mediaeval  and  chivalrous  life,  however, 
mingled  with  the  classical  story,  and  were  often 
the  weightier  element  of  the  two. 

The  second  foreign  influence  was  Italian  litera- 
ture. This  was  more  controlling  than  in  any  pre- 
vious or  subsequent  period.  It  disclosed  itself  in 
translations  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto ;  in  constantly 
returning  Italian  themes  in  the  English  drama,  as  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet;  in  poetical  measures,  as  in  that 


SURREY.  97 

ol  Spenser;  and  in  the  kinds  of  poetry.  Surrey 
was  most  immediately  the  medium  through  which 
Italian  poetry  affected  our  literature.  A  translation 
of  two  books  of  Virgil  by  him  gave  the  first  exam- 
ple of  English  blank  verse,  a  form  taken  from  Italy. 
He  also  introduced  under  the  same  influence  son- 
nets, so  long  a  favorite  variety  with  our  poets,  and 
gave  a  beginning  to  our  lyrical  poetry.  Lyrical 
poetry,  as  the  product  of  subtile,  refined  sentiment, 
falls  to  a  somewhat  late  period  in  national  devel- 
opment. Its  origin  in  Southern  France,  and  cul- 
tivation in  Italy  had  been  the  result  of  the  extreme 
development  of  chivalry,  and  the  languid  refine- 
ment of  Southern  tastes.  These  chivalrous  senti- 
ments belonged  in  a  high  degree  to  Surrey,  and 
united  him,  on  his  visit  to  Italy,  with  an  easy  nat- 
ural affinity  to  its  literature.  Yet  an  English  tem- 
per so  far  aided  him,  that  his  composition  showed 
more  simplicity  and  sobriety  than  his  models,  and 
we  have  in  him  the  lyric  spirit  with  little  of  that 
extreme  vaporing  tenderness  which  had  begun  to 
attach  to  it  in  Italy.  He  was  followed  and  aided 
in  this  branch  of  poetry  by  Wyatt.  Thus  Italy 
gave  us,  through  one  in  whom  the  rough  English 
character  was  subdued  to  utmost  courtesy,  our 
earliest  lyric  strains,  single  notes  from  its  sunny 
vineyards  and  olive  groves,  floating  northward  to 
our  more  rugged  climate,  dropping  as  they  came 
their  heat  of  passion,  and  taking  in  its  place  the 
glow  of  manlier  sentiments ;  as  coals  that  ceasing 
to  smoulder  burn  again  in  the  draught  of  strong 
winds. 

5 


98     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Most  noticeable  of  the  domestic  forces  that 
affected  the  period  was  the  firm,  peaceful,  conserv- 
ative government  that  fell  to  the  long  reign  of  Eliz- 
abeth. As  advanced  as  any  English  rule  had  yet 
been,  unless  it  be  the  brief  reign  of  Edward  VI.,  in 
religious  liberty,  and  in  its  general  policy,  it  never- 
theless held  firmly  to  its  own  ground,  checking 
rather  than  quickening  progressive  elements. 
Though  the  new,  in  Protestantism,  as  opposed  to 
the  old,  in  Catholicism,  was  accepted,  that  division 
of  elements  which  resulted  in  Puritans  and  royal- 
ists was  still  incipient,  and  thrust  back  by  an  author- 
ity at  once  strong  and  popular.  Peace  at  home, 
with  a  sense  of  power  and  responsibility  abroad, 
prevailed,  and  kept  the  national  mind  alert  in  the 
midst  of  leisure.  An  intense  antagonism  to 
Spain,  and  the  faith  represented  by  it,  animated 
and  consolidated  the  national  sentiments. 

Another  marked  feature  of  this  reign,  enhanced 
by  the  sex,  position  and  character  of  Elizabeth,  was 
the  chivalrous  spirit  which  belonged  to  the  court 
and  nobility.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 
•  were  men  of  a  fascinating  character,  and  one  which 
attached  to  this  particular  period  in  history.  That 
which  was  most  truly  refined  and  just  in  chivalry 
lingered  longest ;  as  a  perfume,  overpowering  at  first, 
becomes  sweetest  as  it  is  ready  to  pass  away.  A 
gentle  courtesy  and  subdued  undertone  of  admira- 
tion gave  a  color  and  flavor  to  society  not  other- 
wise obtainable,  and  tinctured  strongly  poetic  sen- 
timent. Chivalry,  as  a  controlling  institution,  om- 
nipresent, imperious,  smothered  as  much  virtue  as 


SOCIAL    STATE.  99 

it  called  forth.  It  lay  a  damp,  heavy  cloud  on  the 
landscape ;  when  it  lifted  here  and  there,  if  it  re- 
vealed glittering  surfaces,  they  were  decked  with 
cunning  frost-work,  rather  than  with  healthful,  spon- 
taneous life.  But  now,  when  the  sun  had  been  for 
some  time  up,  wlicn  these  exhalations  of  the  night 
were  about  to  pass  away,  they  softened  down  into 
a  warm,  roseate  mist,  casting  the  lightest  shadows, 
and  giving  the  most  unspeakable  charms. 

Literature  still  belonged  almost  exclusively  to 
the  upper  classes,  but  these  had  been  increased  in 
the  cities  by  many  rich  citizens,  into  whose  hands 
power  was  daily  falling.  They  were  growing  up  to 
be  that  body  of  the  nation,  to  which  nobility  is  as 
secondary  as  pauperism.  Dramatic  literature  was 
far  more  comprehensive  than  romance  literature, 
and  gathered  a  more  promiscuous  audience.  In 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  remnants  of  slavery  were 
still  found,  and  husbandmen  led  a  coarse  and  brut- 
ish life;  vagrancy  and  crime  were  inadequately  sup- 
pressed by  severe  laws,  unequally  administered. 
Sixteen  hundred  executions  are  put  down  as  the 
yearly  average  in  England  alone,  and  seventy-two 
thousand  fell  to  the  entire  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
While,  therefore,  the  wealthier  classes  were  numer- 
ous enough  to  call  forth  and  reward  the  genius  of 
Shakespeare,  they  were  still  in  close  contact  with 
an  unkempt  population,  the  coarsest  staple  of 
human  kind.  Amid  the  losses  of  such  a  state, 
there  was  this  gain,  that  thought  and  speech  pre- 
served a  straightforward,  vigorous,  idiomatic  tone, 
ready  to  do  rough  service  in  rough  places. 


IP 

lOO      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

This  fact  served  to  hold  in  check  those  changes 
incident  to  the  revival  of  learning.  Latin  words 
spread  more  slowly  into  the  body  of  speech,  and 
popular  forms  of  composition,  as  the  drama,  were 
less  choked  by  them.  The  dramatic  writers  of  the 
period  were  usually  graduates  of  the  universities, 
and  also  men  of  the  world  ;  they  united  two  vocab- 
ularies, a  classical  and  a  popular  one,  and  thus  had 
power  above  and  below. 

This  period  presents  both  branches  of  literature, 
poetry  and  prose  ;  though  the  former  has  a  decided 
ascendancy  in  quantity  and  quality.  We  have 
abundant  prose,  however,  faithful  to  its  own  func- 
tion, a  presentation  of  truth ;  and  this  with  an  ex- 
cellency of  manner  which  gives  it  a  place  in  litera- 
ture. Prose,  more  earnest  and  less  artistic  than 
poetry,  more  single  and  less  popular  in  its  pur- 
pose, born  of  thought  rather  than  of  feeling,  ne- 
cessarily reaches  literary  excellence  later.  Thus 
during  this  entire  period,  while  poetry  was  mount- 
ing to  a  point  which  it  has  hardly  since  transcended, 
prose  remained  more  or  less  embarrassed  by  its 
own  resources,  and  labored  through  unwieldy  sen- 
tences, not  native  to  the  vigor  of  our  tongue.  It 
did  its  work  by  strength  rather  than  by  skill,  and 
reached  by  power  what  it  missed  in  grace.  Prose 
had  come  to  a  manly  birth,  but  was  waiting  to  be 
bred  by  the  repose  and  cultivation  of  later  times. 

Poetry,  vigorous  and  creative  though  it  was,  had 
not  fully  recognized  its  own  province.  Many  sub- 
jects were  treated  by  it  more  appropriate  to  prose, 
and  giving  no  sufficient  play  to    the    imagination 


THEMES    OF    POETRY.  lOI 

The  form  of  poetry  should  co-exist  with  a  poetical 
substance,  and  if  the  theme  be  essentially  didactic, 
It  is  in  vain  that  it  is  loaded  with  the  imagery  of 
the  fancy.  Stone  good  for  a  wall  may  be  too  coarse 
for  statuary ;  topics,  admirable  in  prose,  yield  in- 
sufficient feeling  to  poetry.  Examples  of  these  un- 
poetical  themes  are.  The  History  of  the  Civil  Wars, 
a  poem  by  Daniel ;  Nosce  Teipsum,  a  Proof  of  Im- 
mortality, by  Davies.  In  so  vigorous  a  period  it  was 
natural  that  plants  should  spring  up  at  points  that 
could  not  finally  afford  them  nourishment.  The 
just  division  of  the  field  of  literature,  giving  to  each 
portion  its  own  products,  was  a  later  growth  of 
judgment  and  taste,  one  not  yet  quite  complete. 


LECTURE  V. 

Influence  of  Climate  on  National  Character.  —  Spenser. — Shake- 
speare.— Milton. — Spenser's  Character. — His  Relation  to  the 
Past. — Faery  Queen. — Character  as  a  Poet. — The  Drama. — 
Classical,  French  and  English  Drama.  —  Origin  of  English 
Drama. — Shakespeare,  power  of,  morality  of. 

So  many  are  the  causes  involved  in  any  com- 
plex effect,  that  an  oversight  of  a  portion  of  them 
is  inevitable.  It  is  also  natural,  that  once  made 
aware,  in  a  particular  direction,  of  this  neglect,  we 
should  forthwith  give  the  newly  discovered  agent 
more  than  its  share  of  weight.  The  same  partial, 
the  same  limited  power  of  the  mind,  is  shown  alike 
in  its  too  restricted  and  its  too  intense  appreciation. 
Thus,  having  waked  up  to  the  fact  that  soil  and 
climate  have  something  to  do  with  national  charac- 
ter, we  hasten  to  the  conclusion,  that  these  are  the 
chief  and  controlling  forces  in  its  formation  ;  and 
that  the  families  of  men  are  but  a  higher  flora,  a 
more  varied  fauna,  whose  tendencies  and  capacities 
are  impressed  upon  them  by  their  environment; 
taking  care  to  include  in  this,  not  merely  the  miner- 
alogy of  the  earth,  the  meteorology  of  the  heavens, 
the  make  of  the  land, — its  mountain  fastnesses,  or 
open  plains,  its  secluded  position  or  commercial  ad- 
vantages— but  also  the  accumulated  results  of  these 
forces  long  since  wrought  into  the  national  stock. 
Thus   the    serious  and  sombre  phases   of  English 

ho2) 


EFFECTS    OF    CLIMATE.  IO3 

character,  its  stern  purpose  and  stolid  animality,  its 
severe  restraints  and  brutal  outbursts,  its  vigorous 
moral  conflicts  with  itself  and  with  others,  are  as- 
cribed to  the  climate  of  England,  damp  and  deject- 
ed, often  driving  the  inhabitants  into  indoor  life, 
putting  them  to  effort  in  their  pleasures  ;  and  to  its 
soil,  low-lying,  fertile,  penetrated  and  close  bound 
by  the  sea,  yielding  no  hilarity,  no  exhilaration  of 
sunshine  and  upland  to  the  spirits,  yet  rewarding 
labor  with  plentiful  food ;  more  generous  to  diges- 
tion than  to  imagination,  more  liberal  in  utilities 
than  beauties.  We  are  not  disposed  to  deny,  and 
we  strive  not  to  underrate,  these  physical  infl.u- 
ences  ;  but  they  are  far  from  sufficient  to  explain 
fully  any  type  of  national  character.  We  find  no 
reason  for  this  entire  transfer  of  causation  to  the 
physical  world,  as  if  mind  went  for  nothing  among 
primitive  forces.  Lands  do  not  yield  given  nations 
as  they  do  given  fruits,  under  defined  qualities  of 
soil  and  limits  of  temperature ;  and  if  they  did,  in 
this  correlation  of  conditions  and  products,  there 
would  still  be  included  the  inscrutable  living  agency. 
Irish  character,  ripened  under  much  the  same  phys- 
ical conditions  with  English  character,  is  yet  very 
unlike  it.  Races  have  varied  and  independent  en- 
dowments, and  by  constitutional  and  acquired  bias 
either  control  or  greatly  modify  the  effects  that 
reach  them  from  the  external  world. 

The  ethical  quality  which  undoubtedly  belongs 
to  English  as  contrasted  with  French  character 
is  not  a  result  of  climate.  It  exists  in  very  dif- 
ferent  degrees  in  the    three  political   divisions  of 


I04      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

the  empire,  Ireland,  Scotland,  England ;  and  the 
explanation  of  this  varying  intensity  is  to  be  found 
in  the  religious  history  of  each  of  these  sections. 
The  force  of  religious  ideas,  their  form  of  manifes- 
tation, have  been  very  distinct  for  centuries  in  Eng- 
land and  in  France ;  and  this  fact,  on  which  the 
character  of  each  nation  to-day  hinges,  has  not 
been  the  result  of  diversity  of  soils  simply,  but  of 
sentiments  as  well,  of  a  variety  in  the  ingredients 
of  manhood  rather  than  in  those  of  matter,  in  the 
way  in  which  free,  unique  and  responsible  powers 
have  been  unfolded.  Into  this  national  complexity 
have  entered  many  forces,  but  supreme  among 
them  all  have  ruled  those  pristine  elements  which 
make  up  character,  first  individual,  then  national , 
establishing  themselves  at  points,  thence  enlarging, 
interlacing,  and  growing  into  a  net-work  of  living 
and  relatively  homogeneous  dependencies.  Certain- 
ly we  cannot  concede  a  primitive  power  to  the  plant, 
to  the  material  molecule,  and  deny  it  to  man. 
So  Germany,  side  by  side  with  France,  and  so  Spain, 
stand  each  contrasted  with  it  in  national  traits. 

National  character  is  not  something  superin- 
duced from  without ;  is  not  rugged  features,  grim 
facial  outlines,  and  a  gruff  bearing  caught  from  the 
cold  peevish  air,  from  the  warfare  of  man  with  un- 
generous nature  ;  it  is  not  a  mood  of  the  heavens, 
which,  by  sympathy,  he  has  gradually  transferred 
to  his  own  constitution,  casting  this  in  the  same 
mould,  with  the  same  strife  of  tendencies  ;  it  is 
rooted  in  deep,  measurably  independent,  constitu- 
tional forces,  abiding  with  him  as  their  centre  ;  even 


INDIVIDUALS.  105 

as  matter  possesses  a  character,  and  is  faithful  to 
it.  Thought,  manners  and  Uterature  receive  their 
coloring  from  the  way  in  which  this  national  germ 
shows  itself  in  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  people,  as 
a  distinctive,  national  type. 

Having  seen  the  general  influences  at  work  on 
and  through  English  character  in  the  Elizabethan 
period,  we  now  turn  to  consider  what  individual 
creative  power  added  to  them,  what  it  wrought  be- 
yond the  range  of  results  level  to  the  time  and  pe- 
riod in  its  graded,  normal  activity.  There  are  al- 
ways in  a  great  age  here  and  there  significant  clus- 
ters of  forces  to  which  we  can  only  give  an  individ- 
ual name,  whose  power  we  cannot  trace  beyond 
those  wonderful  personalities  in  which  they  inhere ; 
men  who  make  the  period  as  well  as  are  made  by  it 
In  this  era  we  dwell  upon  three  of  these,  Spenser, 
Shakespeare  and  Milton.  We  know  of  no  necessary 
causes  which  laid  down  the  frame-work  of  powers 
for  any  one  of  these  three  men  ;  yet  through  those 
power-s  came,  in  large  part,  the  Elizabethan  age. 
Without  these  three  it  might  have  been  a  high  table- 
land, with  them  it  adds  thereto  some  of  the  no- 
blest altitudes  of  the  globe. 

Though  all  working  under  the  conditions  pre- 
sented by  the  period,  these  men  stood  in  very  dif- 
ferent relations  to  it.  The  bent  of  his  own  genius 
decided  for  each  the  form  of  his  works,  and  gave 
them  a  very  diverse  direction.  Spenser  looked  stead- 
ily toward  the  past ;  was  quietly  conservative  in  his 
temper,  and  dreamy  in  his  cast  of  mind.  Milton 
turned  to  the  future.     Fier)'',  almost  fierce  in  pur- 


I06     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

pose,  under  the  strenuous  impulse  of  principles, 
he  reined  in  thought  and  imagery  alike  to  the  firm 
march  of  ideas.  Shakespeare's  time  is  the  present, 
an  omnipresent  present,  that  roots  its  creations  any- 
where, and  sets  them  a  growing  under  the  sunshine 
of  the  hour,  as  easily  and  freely  as  if  that  place  and 
time  were  all  the  earth. 

We  speak  first  of  Spenser.  The  past  with  its 
imagery,  its  illusions,  its  pomp  of  life,  and  poetical 
dreaminess,  descended  upon  him,  and  completely 
drank  up  his  quiet,  unpractical  spirit.  With  restless, 
yet  untiring  importunity,  he  sought  from  queen  and 
courtiers  those  means  which  should  leave  him  to  the 
free  indulgence  of  his  tastes.  He  congratulated 
himself 

"  That  even  the  greatest  did  not  greatly  scorne 
To  heare  theyr  names  sung  in  his  simple  layes, 
But  joyed  in  theyr  praise." 

Though  adulation  was  not  a  grateful  task  to 
him,  he  was  content  to  prosper  by  it,  rather  than 
turn  to  those  practical,  commonplace  labors  that 
command  subsistence. 

"  Calme  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  ayie 
Sweete-breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot  Titians  beames,  which  then  did  glyster  fayre; 
When  I  (whom  sullein  care, 
Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitles~e  stay 
In  princes  court,  and  expectation  vayne 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  doe  fly  away 
^   Like  empty  shadows,  did  afflict  my  b  ayne,) 
Walkt  forth  to  ease  my  payne 
Along  the  shoare  of  silver  streaming  Themmes." 

Irritated  by  delay  and  ill  success,  he  complains,  in 


SPIRIT    OF    SPENSER.  IO7 

his  Teares  of  the  Muses,  of  the  overshadowing  in- 
fluence of  polemical  discussion.  He  regards  it  as 
the  creeping  forth  of  "  barbarism  and  ignorance," 
instead  of  the  restlessness  of  a  new  era.  The  fas- 
tidious poet,  anxious  only  to  set  in  order  one  more 
vision  of  the  past,  had  little  sympathy  with  any  dis- 
cussion, however  vital,  "  without  regard  or  due  de- 
corum kept."  He  knew  nothing  of  the  germs  of 
greater  centuries  yet  to  come  that  were  budding 
under  his  feet.  He  was  only  in  haste  to  participate 
in  the  pageant  of  life  that  was  passing,  or  to  escape 
to  the  poetic  glories  of  the  life  that  had  already 
passed. 

Spenser  was  a  poet,  not  a  philosopher ;  his  mind 
was  more  fruitful  of  images  than  of  judgments. 
Appearances  had  so  strong  a  hold  upon  him  as  to 
conceal  underlying  principles.  Such  minds  are  slow 
to  leave  realities,  a  good  achieved  and  a  like  good 
dreamed  of,  to  embark  on  an  ocean  of  revolutionary 
ideas  in  quest  of  new  worlds.  There  is  enough  in 
the  present,  to  call  forth  desire,  enough  in  the  past 
to  furnish  the  decoration  and  tinsel  of  their  dreams. 
They  are  forced  onward  by  no  sense  of  pervasive 
wrong,  nor  pressed  to  labor  for  a  future  cast  in  a 
better  mould.  If  patriotic,  they  find  patriotism  in 
loyalty ;  if  devout,  devotion  attaches  them  to  the 
hoar  and  ven  rable  institutions  of  the  established 
faith.  They  overlook  its  evils,  and  chasten  and 
subdue  its  spirit  to  their  own  quiet,  trusting  moods. 
Such  was  Spenser.  He  asked  only  to  dream,  and 
he  thought  it  hard  that  men  would  not  at  once  give 
him  the   opportunity  of  dreaming,  and   share  with 


I08      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

him  his  delight  in  the  glowing  imagery  of  his  visions. 
This  pleasure  at  length  came  to  him.  In  the  retire- 
ment of  Kilcolman,  Ireland,  on  an  estate  granted 
him  by  Elizabeth,  he  composed  the  larger  share  of 
his  works,  above  all  the  Faery  Queen.  Adown  this 
flowing  vision,  as  along  a  pure,  gentle,  beautiful 
winding  stream,  he  floated  many  a  long  summer's  day, 
and  never  reached  its  end.  However,  as  the  gift  of 
the  queen  lost  something  of  its  grace  by  the  strong 
rapacious  hand  which  plucked  it  from  the  heart  of 
Ireland,  so  the  poet  did  not  escape  the  retribution 
which  clung  to  it.  An  insurrection  broke  out  in 
this  land  of  chronic  violence.  His  house  was  burnt, 
an  infant  child  perished  in  the  flames,  and  he  fled 
to  England,  where  he  died  shortly  after.  Justice 
and  repose  are  exotics  in  this  unfortunate  island  ; 
they  neither  cling  as  hardy  shrubs  to  its  hillsides  ; 
nor  are  they  successfully  planted  by  a  fostering 
hand  in  its  cultivated  fields. 

Spenser  gathered  up  his  chief  strength  in  one 
poem,  the  Faery  Queen.  This,  though  so  far  su- 
perior to  the  past  as  not  to  be  of  it,  bears  through- 
out an  archaic  impress.  It  is  the  genius  of  the  writer 
that  holds  it  aloof  from  its  affinities,  lifts  it  above  its 
kin,  and  puts  it  among  the  best  productions  of  the 
new  epoch,  while  belonging  in  type  and  form  to  the 
tedious  and  dreary  works  of  a  retreating  age.  It 
Is  allegorical,  a  device  by  which  so  many  drooping 
imaginations  had  striven  to  give  motion  to  dull 
themes  :  Hawes,  writing  of  Dame  Commyte,  and 
Lady  Grammar,  and  Dame  Logic.  It  seemed  to  be 
thought  that  by  the  trick  of  a  name  the  life  of  poetr) 


ALLEGOKY,  IO9 

could  be  made  to  descend  upon  and  quicken  the 
meiest  rubbish  of  knowledge  ;  that  a  personal  appel- 
lation would  bring  breath  to  the  nostrils  of  any  the 
rudest  image  of  clay ;  that  a  title,  however  ill  be- 
stowed, had  all  the  charms  of  rank  at  its  command  ; 
and  that  Lady  Grammar,  born  with  such  ease  of 
this  formal  fancy,  was  as  veritable,  sympathetic  and 
inspired  a  being  as  any  of  the  family  of  poetry. 
Thus  also  a  little  later,  Fletcher,  in  his  Purple  Island 
undertook  the  absurd  task  of  allegorizing  into  poetry 
an  anatomical  description  of  the  human  body.  Spen- 
ser's poem  is  an  allegory,  and  great  notwithstanding  ; 
partly,  perhaps,  because  he  often  strays  so  freely, 
unmindful  of  the  perplexed,  tangled  and  broken 
threads  of  primary,  secondary  and  even  tertiary  de- 
pendencies he  has  left  behind  him.  Allegory  puts 
the  steed  of  the  muses-  in  harness  ;  it  must  draw  by 
hill  and  by  valley ;  descending  to  the  ocean  or 
mounting  along  the  clouds  its  moral  is  ever  behind 
it,  and  with  a  pedler's  precision,  it  drops  a  precept  at 
every  door  it  passes,  or  adds  it  may  be  some  new  la- 
ding of  didactic  import.  The  ingenuity  of  the  alle- 
gory is  also  at  war  with  the  inventions  and  freedom 
of  the  poet.  It  gives  him  a  line  along  which  he 
must  move,  rather  than  leaves  him  open  to  impulse 
at  liberty  to  choose  any  way  and  all  ways.  Allegory 
is  a  cunning  method  of  getting  rollers  under  a  truth 
too  heavy  to  be  moved  by  hand,  an  ingenious  device 
for  sliding  a  forgotten,  unacceptable  block  of  precep- 
tive lore  into  the  way  of  the  workmen,  as  they  rear 
the  building  of  national  or  private  character.  It 
is  essentially  didactic,  and  hardly  of  service  even  in 


no      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

instruction,  where  the  mind  of  the  pupil  is  vig- 
orous, receptive  and  eager.  To  be  acceptable 
in  a  lengthy  form  it  must  be  accompanied,  as  in 
Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  by  vigorous  personi- 
fication, often  sweeping  into  forgetfulness  its  indi- 
rect lessons,  and  swallowing  up  the  mind  with  first 
impressions.  Apollyon  makes  as  good  a  fight  as 
Coeur  de  Lion, 

The  allegory  of  Spenser  is  at  times,  as  in  parts 
of  the  first  book,  quite  direct ;  but  more  frequently 
the  poetic  fancy  spurs  freely  forward,  and  leaves  her 
didactic  companion  to  hobble  on  as  he  may,  or  to 
tarry,  till  taken  up  again  on  some  more  sober  and 
easy  excursion. 

The  imagery  of  the  poem,  long  and  varied 
as  it  is,  is  all  drawn  from  chivalry.  It  thus 
wanders  through  a  past  already  becoming  to  the 
cotemporaries  of  Spenser  remote  and  unreal  ;  an 
unlocated,  enchanted,  and  vast  forest,  roamed 
over  by  men  and  women  magnified  in  every 
quality,  fanciful  in  action,  extravagant  in  emotion. 
The  thoroughness  with  which  the  mind  of  Spen- 
ser was  imbued  with  the  sentiment  of  chivalry 
is  astonishing.  He  is  never  at  a  loss.  He  brings 
forward  his  knights  and  ladies  in  exhaustless  va- 
riety, and  enters  upon  each  new  combat,  with 
fresh  spirit,  and  lends  it  novel  incidents.  Chiv- 
alry was  not  with  him,  as  with  the  court  of  Eliz- 
abeth, a  courtesy  of  intercourse,  a  gloss  of  man- 
ners, the  lingering  splendor  of  a  bygone  life ;  his 
poetic  sentiments,  his  virtues,  his  sober  thoughts, 
all  responded  to  it,  all  sprang  into  being  under  its 


CHIVALROUS    SPIRIT    OF    SPENSER.  Ill 

conditions,  inarched  forth  under  its  banners,  van- 
quished or  suffered  defeat  under  the  guise  of  its 
heroes.  A  certain  shadowy,  unreal  character  ne- 
cessarily falls  to  the  personages  of  the  poem,  so 
wholly  are  they  the  children  of  the  fancy,  so  little 
of  realistic  or  historic  light  is  there  in  the  eye  that 
marshals  them,  so  much  of  interpretation,  of  persona 
and  local  rendering.  They  play  a  part  to  the 
mind  so  fictitious  and  conventional,  aside  entirely 
from  allegory ;  are  so  simply  its  own  creations,  that 
we  watch  them  and  move  with  them,  in  a  dreamy, 
unreal  way.  Moreover  the  whole  country,  the  field 
of  their  exploits,  is  one  unmapped,  with  no  earthly 
whereabouts.  It  enlarges  before  us  as  we  move 
into  it,  and,  an  unknown  region,  holds  any  and 
everything  in  reserve.  Its  surprises  fail  to  surprise 
us,  so  evidently  are  its  creations  feats  of  poetic 
legerdemain. 

Hence  it  is,  that  the  Faery  Queen,  though  a  nar- 
rative poem,  is  rather  a  panorama  of  visions,  a  series 
of  dreams,  in  which  old  characters  return  to  us  from 
we  know  not  whence,  and  new  ones  meet  us,  and 
provoke  no  inquiry  into  their  origin ;  causal  con- 
nections are  lost  sight  of;  anything  and  anybody 
are  anywhere,  that  is  where  they  chance  to  be 
wanted,  where  the  fancy  puts  them  ;  and  we,  suffi- 
ciently occupied  with  the  light,  easy  interplay,  as  in 
a  night  vision,  put  no  questions,  and  make  no  com- 
plaints. 

One  result  of  this,  however,  is,  that  the  poem 
gets  no  movement  as  a  whole  ;  there  is  no  direction 
in  the  stream  ;  like  the  dragon's  tail,  it  is  "in  knots 


112      THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

and  many  boughtes  upwound."  This  was  inevit- 
able. The  plan  of  Spenser  predetermined  the  re- 
sult. Twelve  virtues,  headed  by  religion,  rose  be- 
fore the  mind  of  Spenser ;  the  discipleship  of 
private  morality,  to  be  followed  by  twelve  others, 
the  guardians  of  public  faith.  To  each  was  to  be 
devoted  a  book  of  twelve  cantos,  with  its  own 
champion,  its  own  suitable  adventures,  and  inci- 
dental relations  to  the  Queen  of  Faery  Land,  and 
to  Arthur,  its  model  knight.  These  virtues  be- 
came indistinct  in  personification,  features  blended 
The  adventures  of  their  respective  heroes  lacked 
suitableness  and  variety,  the  multiplied  figures  in 
motion  lost  identity,  whirled  on  in  a  maze  of  un- 
real achievements,  and  remained  interesting  only 
by  the  grace  and  novelty  of  their  evolutions.  It 
was  impossible  on  this  slight  plan  to  give  either 
progress,  connection  or  division  to  the  poem ;  the 
result  actually  reached  was  inevitable  The  labor 
was  too  great  even  for  the  strength  of  Spenser. 
Every  step  exhausted  the  imagery  and  interest  at 
his  disposal ;  the  allegorical  thread  was  often 
broken,  even  lost  for  long  periods  together ;  simi- 
lar positions  reappeared ;  and  he  was  not  able 
again  to  reach  the  elevation  and  consistency  of  the 
first  book. 

In  length  also  this  poem  belonged  to  a  past 
which  deemed  nothing  tedious,  felt  little  of  the 
hurry  of  time,  and  waited  patiently  for  the  end 
of  the  longest  and  laziest  action.  The  concentra- 
tion and  energy  of  intellect  which  characterize  an 
age  of  achievement  were  scarcely  known.     Writers 


FAERY    QUEEN,    A    RELIGIOUS    POEM.  II3 

in  philosophy  and  poetry  spun,  like  ever  patient  in- 
sects, inexhaustible  webs  for  simple  and  meagre 
ends,  their  work  often  hanging  in  the  winds  without 
one  poor  fly  to  grace  the  issue.  This  gentle,  yet 
undying  motion  of  Spenser,  in  which  he  seems 
borne  on  by  the  innate  vigor  of  the  imagination, 
rather  than  by  any  purpose  in  view,  any  necessity 
of  the  action,  situation  or  characters,  is  seen  in  his 
full  and  rich  comparisons.  The  metaphor  delays, 
not  the  thought,  impels  it  on  rather ;  is  the  long, 
sudden,  startling  leap  it  takes  in  reaching  its  object. 
The  classical  comparison,  on  the  other  hand,  rolls 
on  in  stately  fashion,  like  a  large  orbed  wheel ;  or 
even  spins  pleasantly  on  its  axis  without  progress. 
This  is  with  Spenser  a  favorite  figure. 

The  Faery  Queen  is  not  merely  a  moral,  it  is  a 
religious  poem.  His  own  words  are  applicable  to 
him. 

"  The  noble  hart,  that  harbours  virtuous  thought, 
And  is  with  childe  of  glorious  great  intent, 
Can  never  rest  untill  it  forth  have  brought 
Th'  eternall  brood  of  glorie  excellent." 

His  was  a  devout  and  earnest  mind,  and  this  it 
was  that  enabled  him  to  transfuse  riotous  war,  and 
at  times  sensuous  imagery,  with  a  gentle  and  pure 
spirit.  His  work  was  a  dream,  a  panorama  of 
dreams,  an  unending  sport  of  the  imagination,  an 
easy  circling  flight  of  fancy,  and  his  scenes  lose 
the  cruel  passions  of  conflict,  the  grossness  of  lust, 
and  the  contamination  of  physical  contact.  We 
wander  with  him  backward  and  forward  through 
his  vague  land  of  visions,   as  free  from  soil  as  the 


114      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

sunlight,  glancing  lightly  on  the  clean  and  the 
unclean. 

Spenser  was  one  of  those  sincere,  imaginative 
spirits  who  need  never  forsake  the  past,  no  matter 
how  dark  and  evil  its  fashion,  for  they  find  not  the 
mischief  that  is  in  it;  they  subject  it  to  their  own 
impressions,  casting  over  it  the  indistinctness  of 
evening  light,  concealing  deformities,  magnifying 
distances,  and  bringing  even  to  coarse  common 
place  an  undefinable  harmony.  Like  a  glorious 
sunset,  Spenser  closed  a  long  dark  day  with  a 
splendid  vision.  As  such  a  sunset  is  said  to  give 
the  promise  of  the  hours  next  to  open,  so  he 
borrowed  the  force  and  spirit  of  the  Elizabethan 
age,  that  he  might  render  the  new  in  prediction 
on  the  fading  sky  of  chivalry.  Spenser  was  a 
poet  for  poets.  He  brings  inexhaustible  refresh- 
ment to  the  imagination.  We  are  not  compelled 
to  read ;  we  wander  as  in  a  beautiful  garden,  we 
rest  at  pleasure,  at  pleasure  resume  our  walk,  or, 
restored  in  spirit,  leave  it  altogether.  From  this 
mellow  light  of  Spenser,  which  is  at  once  evening 
»and  morning,  we  pass  to  Shakespeare,  who  gives 
us  the  bold,  clear  discoveries  of  midday,  and  that 
a  gala  day,  in  which  foreigners  and  citizens  of 
every  rank  crowd  and  jostle  each  other  in  the 
streets,  sport  in  the  public  squares,  move  in  pomp 
along  the  thoroughfares,  and  make  of  life  a  grand 
ever  varying  spectacle. 

Among  the  art  forms  of  the  Elizabethan  era,  one 
was  pre-eminent,  the  drama.  It  engrossed  the 
best  talent  of  the  time,  and  attained  an  eminence 


THE     DRAMA.  II5 

from  which  later  productions  of  the  kind  have 
fallen  rapidly  off.  The  English  drama,  though 
not  altogether  alone,  is  peculiar  in  form.  Its  pur- 
pose is  by  dialogue  purely  to  unfold  striking 
phases  of  character,  grouped  in  action  either 
about  a  single  or  several  leading  personages. 
With  careless  and  vanishing  distinctions,  it  main- 
tains two  forms,  that  of  comedy  and  that  of 
tragedy,  both  elements  easily  uniting  in  the  same 
play,  with  a  general  preponderance  of  the  one, 
sufficient  to  define  and  confirm  the  ruling  senti- 
ment. The  English  drama  is  quite  unlike  the 
classical,  and  also  unlike  the  French  drama.  The 
latter  occupies  a  position  somewhat  between  the 
other  two,  lays  more  stress  than  the  English  play 
on  the  elegant,  easy  evolution  of  the  dialogue, 
the  intellectual  tournament  of  thought  and  senti- 
ment ;  cares  less  for  variety  and  force  of  inci- 
dents, and  for  the  vigor  of  character  which  these 
express ;  clings  far  more  closely  to  the  forms 
and  rules  of  the  art  as  shaped  under  classical 
models ;  and  is  intolerant  of  the  broad,  bold, 
easy,  careless  sweep  of  events  found  in  the  works 
of  Shakespeare  and  of  his  cotemporaries.  The 
classical  drama  rests  on  another  idea,  and  occu- 
pies the  other  extreme  from  that  which  falls  to  the 
English.  The  chorus,  stationary  in  the  centre  of 
the  stage,  rehearsing  many  events,  giving  lyrical 
utterance  and  interpretation  to  the  restricted 
action  as  it  progressed,  was  the  formal,  the  con- 
trolling, external  feature  of  the  Greek  drama,  and 
led   to  a  limitation  in  time    and  place,   ind  in  th^ 


Il6      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

number  of  actors,  quite  foreign  to  the  spirit  of 
our  stage.  The  force  or  inner  power  of  the 
Greek  tragedy  is  as  peculiar  as  its  form  ;  it  is 
a  rapid,  mental  change  under  a  sudden  accumula- 
tion of  events,  the  quick  rending  of  a  soul  by  a 
final  Nemesis,  its  struggle  with  forces  gathering  at 
once  with  fearful  intensity.  This  gives  it  the  nature 
of  a  catastrophe  ;  the  spirit  being  searched.  Job- 
wise,  through  and  through  by  the  din  and  rever- 
beration of  multiplied  calamity,  by  the  sharp,  light- 
ning strokes  of  judgment. 

The  English  drama  owes  its  form  to  its  histori- 
cal origin.  It  was  not  the  product  of  a  pure  and 
critical  aesthetical  sentiment;  a  keen  relish  of  a 
complete,  concise  and  symmetrical  image.  It 
moved  leisurely,  laughingly,  with  varied  and  pro- 
tracted enjoyment,  through  a  series  of  events, 
loosely  united  by  ordinary  causes ;  because  it  had 
slowly  grown  up  by  a  presentation,  rather  than  by 
a  concentration  and  idealization,  of  facts ;  and  en- 
joyed these  in  their  native  flavor  and  spirit.  Its 
idealization  lay  rather  in  increasing  the  relish  of 
events,  making  them  spicy  with  humor  and  passion, 
than,  as  in  the  Greek  tragedy,  in  selecting,  com- 
bining, compacting  them  into  one  hungry  ordeal  of 
woe,  over  whose  blistering  ploughshares,  with  naked 
feet,  the  victim  was  to  hasten  on  as  he  could. 

The  miracle  play,  dating  back  as  far  as  the 
twelfth  century,  rehearsed  to  the  populace  in  the 
monastery,  or  in  the  street?  of  the  city,  the  Bible 
history,  accompanied  with  the  rudest  caricature, 
the  coarsest  joke,  the  most  incongruous  additions. 


EARLY     PLAYS.  Ii; 

The  liistory  was  greatly  humbled,  but  it  was  made 
real,  and  put  within  the  reach  of  the  grossest 
minds.  If  Gabriel,  the  messenger  sent  to  Mary  to 
ask  her  if  she  would  be  God's  wife,  loses  all  celes- 
tial complexion,  and  issues  forth  on  the  rude  service 
of  a  feudal  lord,  yet  the  three  parties  are  present, 
in  vigorous  presentation,  to  all  minds.  The  miracle 
plays  were  accompanied  and  followed  by  the  morali- 
ties, with  a  broader  range  of  subjects,  the  lives  of 
saints  and  legendary  church  history.  These  again 
gave  occasion  to  the  interludes,  shorter  and  yet 
more  secular  pieces;  and  these  by  slow  gradations 
to  that  comic  and  tragic  rehearsal  of  events  which 
constituted  the  earliest  drama,  and  ripened  into  the 
scenes  of  Shakespeare.  The  later  secular  forms 
slowly  took  the  place  of  the  earlier  religious  ones, 
while,  from  beginning  to  end,  the  play  was  a  free 
representation  of  events  more  or  less  remote  from 
each  other,  and  animated  by  a  comic  or  tragic  sen- 
timent. Thus  the  English  drama  owes  its  final 
form  to  its  free  and  historic  development,  and  its 
real  spirit  and  power  to  those  great  artists  who  laid 
hold  of  it  as  it  was,  and  unfolded  it  according  to  its 
inherent  character  and  tendencies.  A  verdict,  grow- 
ing in  unanimity  with  each  advancing  year,  has 
placed  Shakespeare  first  among  dramatic  writers. 
Though  honored  by  his  cotemporaries,  this  position 
certainly  was  not  by  them  granted  to  him.  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  were  more  sought  after.  Web- 
ster includes  him,  yet  with  secondary  commenda- 
tion, among  those  of  whom  he  cherished  a  good 
opinion.      Shakespeare   is    not  merely  in    advance 


Il8      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

of  the  play-writers  of  his  own  and  of  subsequent 
times,  but  so  far  in  advance  as  to  leave  a  long 
unoccupied  stretch  behind  him.  The  galaxy  of 
writers  associated  with  him,  clustering  thick, 
with  varied  and  brilliant  powers,  about  him,  owe 
their  supreme  impression  to  his  over-balancing 
light.  No  one  of  them  can  stand  comparison  with 
him,  and  each  of  them  fades  before  the  eye,  when 
singled  out  for  the  purpose.  The  plays,  for  in- 
stance, of  Jonson,  all  weigh  light  when  put  con- 
jointly against  one  of  the  superior  dramas  of  Shake- 
speare. 

The  time  of  Shakespeare  was  indeed  favorable 
to  his  genius,  but  that  time  was  shared  by  Beau- 
mont, Fletcher,  Massinger,  as  well,  and  left  the 
busy,  fertile  writers,  that  swarmed  up  into  the 
warm,  creative  sunshine  of  that  day,  to  drop  into 
comparative  oblivion.  One  light  only  burns  clear 
for  all  ages  through  the  haze  of  intervening  years, 
and  its  pre-eminence  therefore  must  be  attributed 
to  those  independent  personal  powers  which  genius 
holds  within  itself.  The  times  may  furnish  ma- 
terial, may  give  or  remove  limitations,  but  the 
germ  of  growth  is  ever  in  the  mind  that  harbors 
it.  The  one  inscrutable  force,  which  no  philoso- 
pher can  fully  explain,  is  Shakespeare  himself. 

Close  communion  with  men,  free,  bold,  unre- 
serv^ed — men  of  vigorous  limbs,  strong  appetites, 
impetuous  passions,  and  many  of  them  of  keen  in- 
tellect ;  a  language  receiving  large  additions,  un- 
trammelled by  criticism,  pliant  and  productive  in 
the  hand    of  masters ;    society   awakened    by   new 


SHAKESPEARE.  1 IQ 

thoughts  and  stirring  convictions,  just  conscious  of 
the  life  of  coming  centuries  that  was  rising  within 
it,  and  not  as  yet  heated  and  parted  by  religious 
and  political  passion,  nor  filled  with  the  limited  and 
headlong  bias  of  conflicting  elements  ;  these  were 
the  conditions  under  which  Shakespeare,  and  with 
him  many  more  of  like  occupation,  grew  up  in 
strength,  in  London,  the  centre  of  English  life ; 
ripened  their  powers  in  the  daily  use  of  them  in 
their  chosen  avocation  ;  themselves  on  the  stage, 
saw  and  felt  constantly  the  conditions  of  success 
and  failure  ;  and  entered  into  the  most  direct,  in- 
tense, living  experience  of  the  principles  of  their 
art.  These  were  rare  circumstances,  rare  forces, 
but  Shakespeare  was  rarer  than  they  all.  Without 
him,  and  the  few  who  stood  nearest  to  him,  dark- 
ness would  have  overtaken  that  epoch  as  easily  as 
another.  It  would  have  disappeared  as  the  flush  of 
one  among  an  hundred  sunsets,  and  been  thought 
of  no  more. 

What  were  these  powers  of  Shakespeare,  by 
which  this  age  is  made  inextinguishable  by  the  cen- 
turies which  roll  over  almost  all  things  the  darkness 
of  oblivion,  brushing  from  the  earth  the  life  of  to- 
day, that  they  may  make  ready  for  that  of  to-mor- 
row ;  armies  camping  where  many  another  has 
camped,  yet  without  intrusion,  collision  of  spears 
or  clatter  of  musketry  ?  The  drama  calls  above 
every  other  form  of  composition  for  the  rapid,  va- 
ried, complete  creation  of  character.  This  power, 
this  complication  of  powers,  Shakespeare  possessed, 
and  it  was  his  art.     Characters  that  are  .<^trongly 


120      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

conceived,  entire  and  living,  take  care  of  them 
selves,  as  easily  and  inevitably  as  do  the  men  who 
are  like  them.  It  is  the  imbecile  and  the  mechani- 
cal only  that  are  in  the  way,  either  in  nature 
or  in  art.  A  true  character  contains  and  com- 
mands a  plot ;  while  a  plot  that  runs  before  its 
characters,  leaves  them  all  manakins.  Whatever 
rank  we  give  this  power  among  powers,  that  rank, 
in  a  supreme  degree,  falls  to  Shakespeare.  He 
was  able  from  within  to  raise  up,  and  therefore 
easily  to  work  in  word  and  action,  the  most  di- 
verse and  varied  characters  ;  these  were  the  abun- 
dant, living,  lively  offspring  of  his  fecund  imagi- 
nation. They  traversed  the  stage,  and  occupied  it 
unendingly  with  humorous  and  tragic  incidents,  be- 
cause these  passions  were  in  them,  and  they  were 
to  the  manner  born.  This  supreme  command  of 
human  nature,  this  ability  to  make  it  shift  its  form 
and  color  every  instant,  as  a  cloud  that  fades  or 
glows  in  sunlight,  also  enabled  him  to  treat  with 
equal  felicity  those  allied,  unlike  forms  that  hover 
on  the  bounds  of  the  rational,  yet  range  beyond 
them,  the  spirit,  the  witch,  the  monster,  the  idiot, 
the  half-dazed,  or  one  altogether  insane.  As  cari- 
cature, if  successful,  must  grow  out  of  that  which 
is  real,  must  be  a  distortion  aptly  put  upon  it,  so 
the  supernatural  and  the  unnatural  will  only  obey 
those  who  are  masters  of  nature. 

This  creative  power  is  not  imagination,  though 
it  wakes  imagination  to  its  highest  efforts;  nor 
judgment,  though  judgment  constantly  moderates 
and  consolidates  its  work;    nor  sympathy,  though 


SHAKESPEARE.  121 

sympathy,  in  the  putting  forth  of  this  strength,  gives 
hfe  to  it  and  receives  it  from  it  each  instant ;  nor 
memory,  though  memory  draws  for  it  upon  the 
crowded  recollections  of  active  and  eventful  years ; 
nor  yet  perception,  the  combined  intuition  of  the 
senses  and  the  reason,  though  this  lies  nearer  the 
nucleus  than  any  other  one  act;  it  is  all  these,  in- 
terfusing and  feeding  each  other,  till  the  mind  be- 
comes a  fruitful  field,  in  which  a  fertile  soil  waits 
on  refreshing  showers,  and  these  on  the  seeds  of 
tender  plants,  sturdy  shrubs,  and  towering  trees. 
Such  a  prolific  soul  was  Shakespeare's,  and  his  cre- 
ations came  up  in  like  abundance,  and  grew  with  the 
same  overshadowing  strength  and  luxuriant  ease  of 
life.  His  relation  to  art,  it  is  not,  therefore,  difficult 
to  define.  He  reached  it  by  the  inevitable  force  of 
his  faculties.  To  bind  the  genius  of  one  nation, 
when  it  attains  such  vigor  as  did  that  of  the  English 
people  in  Shakespeare,  to  the  rules  of  art  applicable 
to  another  time  and  climate,  is  to  miss  utterly  the 
freedom  which  belongs  to  every  creative  impulse. 
As  the  flora  of  one  region,  or  the  beauty  of  one 
sky,  is  not  that  of  another,  so  the  literature  of  each 
period  stands  by  the  force  of  the  life  that  is  in  it. 
Influen'.e,  instruction  may  lead  to  high  art,  but  not 
imitation.  To  insist  on  any  absolute  excellence  in 
Grecian  architecture,  or  sculpture,  or  poetry,  not  to 
be  departed  from,  is  to  make  over  all  subsequent 
time  to  mediocrity.  It  is  the  office  of  genius,  not 
to  fulfil  another's  law,  but  to  disclose  the  law  of  its 
own  nature,  and  of  its  own  age.  This  Shakespeare 
did ;  he  emphasized  and  completed  the  bold,  free, 
6 


122     THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

rugged  drama  for  which  Enghsh  Hfe  and  history 
had  prepared  the  way.  He  thus  accomplished  the 
work  centuries  had  been  laying  out  for  him.  This 
energetic  English  temper  or  form  he  carries  with 
him,  no  matter  where  he  casts  the  scenes  of  his 
drama ;  and  while  it  is  one  which  grew  up  histori- 
cally from  his  age  and  nation,  and  was  brought  to 
its  sovereign  proportions  by  the  strength  of  his 
single  nature,  it  is  all  the  more  that  of  true  art, 
because  of  these  native,  living,  consistent  forces 
which  were  unfolded  in  it.  Taine  says  of  Shake- 
speare, that  his  master  faculty  is  "an  imagination 
freed  from  the  fetters  of  reason  and  morality." 
Trained  in  a  more  quiet  and  obedient  school,  one 
»ess  passionate  and  less  inspired,  he  regards  the 
English  stage  as  presenting  a  dramatic  literature 
of  "raving  exaggerations,"  whose  "ideas  all  verge 
on  the  absurd ; "  but  the  catholic  critic  will  recog- 
nize in  this  language  the  judgment  of  one  suddenly 
falling  upon  an  art  too  new  and  strong  for  him,  and 
mistaking,  therefore,  its  very  vigor  and  life  for  law- 
lessness. He  has  passed  from  the  garden  to  the 
forest,  and  the  trees  seem  to  him  awkward  and  dis- 
proportioned  through  excessive  growth,  through  the 
impress  of  the  struggles  by  which  they  have  at 
length  overtopped  their  fellows,  and  occupied  with 
sturdy  branches  the  upper  air.  A  little  time,  more 
familiarity,  might  lead  him  to  discover  a  majesty 
and  freedom  here,  quite  beyond  the  tempered  and 
proportionate  life  that  he  has  left. 

Undoubtedly  Shakespeare  accepts  the  English 
method  and  impulse,  with  its  restrictions  upon  it, 


SHAKEhPEARE.  123 

with  its  peculiarities,  its  own  possibilities  within  it; 
but  these,  when  pushed  to  their  limits  by  his 
strength,  are  quite  sufficient  U)r  a  great  and  com- 
plete art.  This  narrowness,  on  the  one  side,  and 
vigor,  on  the  other,  may  be  seen  in  the  women  of 
Shakespeare.  His  ideal  is  the  English  ideal.  His 
best  creations,  those  in  which  he  gathers  up  the 
beauties  of  his  art,  are  full  of  love,  patience,  de- 
pendence; quick  in  insight,  yet  without  mastery; 
incomplete  in  themselves,  and  waiting  to  attach 
themselves  to  some  centre  of  manly  force  and  life, 
from  which,  as  flowers  whose  roots  are  hidden  in 
the  crevice  of  a  rock,  they  may  rise  and  blossom  in 
fragile  beauty.  He  knows  also  the  termagant,  that 
worse  than  masculine  nature,  which,  breaking  its 
close  confinement,  does  itself  every  species  of  vio- 
lence under  the  wayward  impulse  that  rules  it, 
driven  far  beyond  its  own  will  by  the  severity  of  a 
censure  it  cannot  soften  ;  but  he  knows  little  of 
v/oman  as  a  self-contained  and  independent  power, 
as  ruling  within  herself,  measurably  complete  in 
her  own  nature,  and  thus  able  to  rule  and  thrive 
with  others. 

Falstaff,  his  chief  humorous  creation,  is  also 
very  English  in  character,  and  quite  opportune  to 
Ihe  English  drama.  His  humor  is  in  his  flesh,  his 
blood,  his  action,  quite  as  much  as  on  his  tongue. 
He  is  full  of  vitiosity,  without  being  hateful;  his 
very  grossness  saves  him  from  our  anger,  and  we 
feel  that  he  plots  no  mischief,  save  as  he  is  driven 
to  it  by  a  coarse,  unconquerable,  appetitive  nature. 
Our  moral  sense  is  apologetic  toward  him,  as  is  our 


124      'illli    rillLOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

gesthctical  sentiment  to  an  interesting,  though  un- 
couth, specimen  of  animal  life.  We  feel  that  he  is 
as  yet  scarcely  bred  above  his  physical  impulses, 
and  that  only  in  the  line  of  cunning  and  vanity ;  2 
fact  so  palpable  as  to  make  praise  and  blame  mis- 
directed, when  applied  to  his  actions.  In  short,  ht 
finds  entrance  and  countenance  in  a  furtive  way 
through  a  momentary  remissness  of  an  overtired 
moral  sense,  without  essentially  vitiating  its  gen- 
eral judgments,  or  abating  its  force.  He  is  no 
Italian  villain,  whom  we  must  know,  and  knowing 
hate. 

Taine  speaks  of  Shakespeare  as  a  "  Nature 
poetical,  immoral,  inspired,"  also  as  "  void  of  will 
and  reason."  These  adjectives  we  think  can  not  be 
so  grouped,  and  each  retain  its  full  force.  To  be 
immoral  is  to  lack  in  part,  in  one  direction  at  least, 
poetical  inspiration ;  for  the  noblest  creations  of 
character  would  be  thereby  shut  out  from  the  vision 
of  the  soul.  What,  then,  is  Shakespeare's  relation 
to  morality  .-•  He  is  not  certainly  a  religionist ;  he 
is  not  a  moralist.  He  neither  fashions  precepts, 
nor  makes  it  his  business  directly  or  indirectly  to 
enforce  them.  Is  he  therefore  immoral .''  Then  is 
nature  immoral,  human  history  and  the  record  of 
daily  life  ;  for  it  is  these  that  Shakespeare  repro- 
duces. If  he  does  not  so  construct  his  plot,  so 
manipulate  his  characters,  as  to  give  peculiar  and 
brilliant  light  to  moral  issues,  no  more  does  he  pervert 
ami  cover  them  up.  He  allows  the  moral  forces, 
among  other  real  natural  forces,  to  flow  on  with 
events,  to  exercise  their  own  share  o'  control  over 


SHAKESPEARE.  125 

them,  and  to  come  out,  from  time  to  time,  in  terrific 
thunder  shoclcs  of  retribution.  He  merely  fails,  as 
a  showman,  to  arrest  the  spectacle,  invite  attention 
and  rehearse  the  unmistakable  lesson.  At  bottom, 
Shakespeare,  instead  of  being  an  immoral,  is  a 
moral  writer  ;  because  he  handles  powerfully  and 
truthfully  natural,  real  forces  ;  those  which  in  th 
world  shape  character,  control  its  development, 
gather  up  its  issues.  In  this  region  to  be  true,  to  be 
complete,  is  in  the  most  important  of  all  ways  to  be 
moral ;  and  to  be  untrue  and  incomplete,  though  a 
thousand  tags  of  morality  be  tacked  to  the  story, 
or  woven  into  it  as  its  deceitful  labels,  is  to  be  im- 
moral. It  is  with  the  interior  combination  of  opin- 
ions, sentiments,  choices,  that  the  artist  has  to  do, 
— and  the  true  moralist  as  well — with  the  natural 
issue  of  events,  and  the  ripe  fruits  of  character  ;  and 
these  all  proceed  under  the  laws,  and  disclose  the 
facts  of  the  world,  as  God  ordains  them.  The 
drama,  the  novel,  the  history,  the  biography,  so  pre- 
senting them,  is  moral ;  has  in  it  the  precise  moral- 
ity which  governs  and  illuminates  the  world.  His- 
tory is  not  printed  in  raised  letters  for  the  morally 
blind  to  read ;  it  is  not  a  Sabbath-school  book  for 
children,  devising  for  each  sin  an  instant  disaster ; 
yet  it  is,  with  all  its  crimes,  its  atrocities,  its  ninety- 
nine  unrighteous  acts,  and  its  one  hundredth  virtu- 
ous one,  so  far  moral  as  to  be  God's  great  and  inex- 
haustible revelation  of  morality ;  that  wherein  he 
discloses  character,  uncovers  good  and  evil,  and 
leads  ultimately  to  the  light  the  excellent,  the 
admirable,  all    that  men    do  in  their  secret  soul's 


126      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

honor.  The  religionist  and  the  sensualist  may  make 
the  same  mistake,  that  of  calculating  the  orbit  of  ac- 
tion from  too  small  an  arc.  See  deeply,  see  broadly, 
follow  conduct  with  the  patience  of  Providence,  and 
there  is  no  room  for  two  opinions.  The  higher  the 
art,  therefore,  the  more  certainly  it  reaches  nature 
in  its  balance  of  motives,  and  in  the  issues  of  action, 
the  more  certainly  is  it  moral.  This  morality  belongs 
to  Shakespeare.  When  crime,  as  in  Macbeth  ;  or 
guilt,  as  in  the  King  of  Denmark  ;  or  villainy,  as  in 
lago ;  or  avarice,  as  in  Shylock,  come  before  us, 
they  do  so  in  their  own  character,  and  we  have  no 
other  thing  to  say  of  them,  than  when,  in  the  trag- 
edy of  history  under  the  ordering  of  a  higher  hand, 
they  move  across  the  real  stage  of  life.  Shake- 
speare, also,  by  his  high  artistic  power,  was  lifted 
into  a  purer  region  than  that  which  belonged 
to  his  cotemporaries;  felt  less  the  need  of  low  in- 
uendo,  and  vulgar  ribaldry ;  could  win  and  command 
attention  by  the  vigor  of  his  primary  movement,  and 
thus  ordinarily  holds  on  his  way  without  soil  from, 
the  defilement  about  him.  That  which  is  low,  he 
touches  lightly,  and  never  makes  his  feast  of  it.  He 
is  full  of  resources,  and  these  render  him  select  and 
confident  in  his  ground.  As  nature  is  knit  to 
morality,  and  in  fellowship  with  its  purity,  so  is  and 
must  be  its  every  great  master.  It  is  the  petty 
limitations,  the  sad  restrictions  men  have  put  on 
morality,  its  shallowness  and  barrenness,  a  clear- 
ness gained  by  the  loss  of  all  depth  and  power,  that 
have  led  them  to  think  of  Shakespeare  as  immoral, 
and  of  the  world  as   immoral  ;  and  that  too,  per- 


SHAKESPEARE.  12/ 

chance,  while  allowing  God,  in  their  conception  of 
him,  to  absorb  by  foreordination  all  the  sins  of  men 
into  his  own  constitution.  What  we  most  need 
are  eyes  to  see  Ahat  Ciol  is  ibout,  and  in  this 
every  great  artist  helps  us. 

The  works  of  God  are  broader  than  our  broaucac 
works,  fuller  of  sympathies,  richer  in  beauties,  mor 
fruitful  in  affections.     It  is  the  part  of  inspiration  to 
see  some  new  portion  of  this  wealth,  and  of  teach- 
ableness to  be  taught  it. 

Shakespeare  is  moral,  then,  by  the  full  torrent 
and  truthfulness  of  his  overmastering  genius,  and 
immoral  by  the  ooze  and  drainage  of  adjacent 
times.  Shakespeare  is  surprisingly  impersonal. 
He  has  written  much,  yet  we  know  very  little  of 
him — William  Shakespeare.  He  is  back  of  his 
characters  creatively,  not  sympathetically.  He 
yields  them  one  and  all,  without  haste,  without 
delay,  to  the  laws  of  the  world  into  which  he  has 
brought  them.  This  one  fact  gives  him  a  serene 
moral  elevation.  It  is  also  surprising  that  Shake- 
speare should  have  been  so  apparently  indifferent  to 
posthumous  fame.  In  the  years  that  intervened 
between  his  retirement  and  his  death,  he  seems  to 
have  done  nothing  for  the  editing  or  publishing  of 
his  plays ;  but  to  have  left  them  to  their  chances,  an 
abandoned  literary  progeny.  There  is  in  this  a  won* 
derful  alienation  from  ordinary  human  feeling. 


LEClUkE  VI. 

*^'\  on,  hh  j'f^nth  rmnhood,  old  age. — Criticism  on  his  Work'. 

A  Transition  Period. — Revolutionary  Times  Critical. — (a)  Antagon 
ism  of  political  Parties. — The  Literature  of  each. — lludibras. — 
The  Drama. — Its  Degeneracy,  reasons  of, — (i)  Pecuniary  Inter- 
ests,— (2)  Moral  Influences, — (3)  Scenic  Effects, — (4)  Unfitness 
of  Deep  Emotions  for  a  Spectacle. — {i>),  Antagonism  between 
French  and  English  Tendencies ;  (c),  between  Criticism  and  Cre- 
ation.— Dryden,  position,  character,  powers. 

The  third  great  name  of  the  Elizabethan  age  is 
that  of  Milton.  As  Spenser's  stands  at  its  com- 
mencement, opening  its  portals  backward  on  the 
past,  where  the  glow  of  the  fading  day  of  chivalry 
still  rests  on  the  horizon ;  so  does  Milton  step  forth 
at  its  close,  as  one  who  has  caught  the  prophetic 
force  of  its  spirit,  and  sees  the  light  of  new  ideas, 
of  dawning  ages,  deeply  penetrating  the  spaces  be- 
fore him  and  about  him.  Spenser  is  animated  by  a 
gentle,  erudite  and  meditative  spirit,  a  piety  and 
poetry  that  soften  and  veil  the  harsh,  unholy  facts 
of  life ;  that  rearrange  and  represent  them  with  a 
mellow  light  that  quite  conceals  the  conflicts  of 
good  and  evil,  and  brings  to  the  world  as  it  is,  and 
yet  more  to  it  as  it  has  been,  a  cheerful  and  benign 
aspect.  He  is  the  poet  of  conventional  forms,  and 
a  conventional  religion.  Shakespeare  moves  amid 
the  sturdy,  strong  passions  that  play  into  and  under 
social  events,  whether  they  be  right  or  wrong. 
He    is    the   poet   of  natural,  constitutional  forces, 

(128) 


MILTON.  129 

and  thus  of  natural  religion  and  morality.  He 
deals  with  the  fearful  shocks  of  the  moral  world  ; 
because  the  intellectual  atmosphere  of  the  human 
soul  is  penetrated  and  convulsed  by  them.  There 
can  be  no  terrific  storms  without  these  thundev- 
claps  of  justice,  this  sharp  lightning  of  conscience; 
and  Shakespeare  is  the  poet  of  natural  religion,  be- 
cause he  cannot  otherwise  present  nature.  Milton 
is  the  poet  of  definite  and  progressive  dogma,  a  re- 
vealed religion  that  lives  to  conquer,  that  casts  off 
the  past,  and  bestirs  itself  in  perpetual  resistance 
and  struggle  to  win  a  new  future.  The  religious 
sentiment  had  divided  itself.  A  portion  lingered  ; 
another  portion  pushed  onward,  accepted  the  civil 
and  reformatory  conflicts  of  the  hour,  and  gave 
itself  unreservedly  to  a  social  and  religious  ideal. 
This  spirit  the  soul  of  Milton  gathered  with  full 
force  into  itself.  His  life  was  spent  beyond  the 
calm  of  the  strictly  Elizabethan  age.  He  ripened 
under  the  conflict  of  its  dissevered  elements,  adopt- 
ed its  progressive  forces,  and  opened  the  way  be- 
fore them.  In  a  reactionary  hour,  that  brought 
quiet  and  neglect  to  his  old  age,  he  gave,  in  poetry, 
a  rehearsal,  in  their  grandest  phase,  to  the  same 
ideas  that  had  ruled  his  actions. 

Milton  was  the  poet  of  revealed  religion  under 
its  Puritanic  type.  The  style  and  thought  of  Mil- 
ton are  native  to  this  earnest  and  extended  insight 
of  his  mind.  From  the  beginning  he  manifested 
the  same  scope  and  majesty.  He  always  spread  a 
broad  wing,  and  floated  serenely  ;  moving  at  ease 
from  peak  to  peak.  His  literary  life  dropped  into 
6* 


130      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATUKE. 

three  periods,  youth,  manhood,  and  old  age  ;  and 
each,  under  one  general  impulse,  fell  to  different 
and  fitting  tasks.  The  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  right- 
ly opened  his  literary  labors.  There  were  gathered 
with  this  into  his  early  life  secondary  poems,  brief 
morning  flights  of  the  imagination,  which  serve  to 
disclose  the  nature  of  the  powers  he  held  in  reserve 
for  the  real  labors  of  the  day.  These  first  hours  of 
song  were  displaced  by  a  long,  sultry  midday,  in 
which  Milton,  forgetful  of  poetry,  gave  himself  to  the 
vigorous  championship  of  ideas — ideas  the  most  sig- 
nificant the  world  then  held,  the  most  formidable  in 
action,  the  most  pregnant  in  theoretical  and  practical 
results,  ideas  that  plucked  at  thrones  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  commonwealths.  Without  regret, 
driven  by  the  earnestness  of  his  own  nature,  Milton 
turned  to  the  conflict  of  argument,  and  called  up  his 
imagination  only  that  it  might  arm  and  furnish  forth 
the  truth ;  and  send  it  as  a  thundering  train  of 
artillery  to  speedy  conquest.  The  storm  having 
passed  by,  a  sombre,  reactionary  evening  haviiig 
set  in,  the  heavens  still  cloaked  with  clouds,  the 
'blind  warrior,  finding  nothing  more  to  be  done,  in 
this  hush  of  the  senses  turned  again  to  poetry,  and 
in  the  ripeness  of  a  ripe  mind  took  up  his  great 
labor. 

An  epic  poem  on  King  Arthur  had  been  among 
the  early  dreams  of  Milton.  From  this  the  stern 
midday  duties  of  his  life  had  diverted  him,  not  only 
diverted  him,  but  fitted  him  for  quite  another 
theme.  Long  tossed  in  the  most  protracted,  pro- 
gressive and    critical    conflict    of  the    century,  he 


MILTON.  131 

naturally  found  himself,  at  its  close,  nerved  for 
the  narration  of  a  more  real  and  pungent  strife 
than  that  of  the  thrice  told  tales  of  chivalry.  His 
eye  was  directed  to  the  earliest,  highest,  most  ger- 
minant  struggle  of  spirits,  rebellious  to  the  moral 
law ;  one  that  opened  the  wide  chasm  that  di- 
vides hell  from  heaven,  and  sowed  broadcast  on 
earth  the  seeds  of  sedition.  Here  the  full  ten- 
sion of  his  thoughts,  his  deep-toned  sentiments, 
found  sufficient  and  sympathetic  play.  There  is 
still  preserved  in  the  library  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  a  dramatic  sketch  by  Milton,  on  the 
same  theme  as  Paradise  Lost,  the  fall  of  angels 
and  of  men.  This  was  not  completed,  or  at  least 
published.  It  seems  probable  that  the  subject 
may  have  opened  unexpected  vistas,  and  been 
recommitted  in  his  mind  for  this  later  and  larger 
presentation. 

The  style  of  Milton,  not  less  than  his  depth 
of  conviction  and  stirring  experience,  fitted  him 
for  the  labor  he  undertook.  So  thoroughly  pos- 
sessed was  he  by  classical  scholarship,  so  crowded 
was  his  imagination  with  antique  imagery,  that 
nothing  but  the  most  overruling  and  dominant 
impulse  could  give  to  him  originality,  could  se 
afloat  and  convoy  these  borrowed  treasures  of  traf- 
fic. Under  an  independent  and  superior  thought, 
they  gave  scope  and  grandeur  to  the  movement, 
<ind  richly  furnished  it  out  with  scenic  effect. 

The  subject  of  Paradise  Lost  is  such  as  to 
render  impossible  a  treatment  satisfactory  to  all 
minds.     Many  would  deny  it  any  treatment,  as  in 


132      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

some  of  its  branches  an  unapproachable  theme, 
one  to  be  left  in  the  high,  unsearchable  places  of 
thought.  This,  in  absolute,  philosophical  criticism, 
would  seem  to  be  the  true  view.  There  is  of  ne- 
cessity a  jar  and  collision,  when  the  infinite  and 
transcendant  are  made  to  enter  finite  limits,  and 
that  too  under  the  unfamiliar  forms  of  another's 
imagination.  Yet  when  we  remember  that  this  is 
done  in  the  person  of  Christ ;  when  we  recall  the 
comparatively  rude  way  in  which,  without  reproach, 
it  had  been  accomplished  in  painting,  a  much 
more  sensual  art  than  poetry,  we  believe  that 
this  first  criticism  should  be  waived,  and  the  poet 
held  only  to  the  strongest,  purest,  most  simple 
pitch  of  the  imagination,  as  he  makes  for  us  a 
visible  way  through  the  invisible  things  of  God. 

This  grandeur  is  conceded  to  Milton  in  ap- 
proaching these  dread  unattainable  precincts,  this 
Shekinah  of  our  religious  thoughts.  Do  we  not 
find,  however,  both  in  his  presentation  of  the  Deity 
and  of  Adam,  some  of  the  blemishes  of  a  temper 
too  positive  and  dogmatic  .■*  Art  is  not  only  not 
didactic,  it  will  not  allow  the  didactic  spirit  to 
disguise  itself  under  its  work.  The  Deity  of  the 
highest  ethical  art  must  not  utter  and  enforce 
theology  ;  nor  should  Adam,  in  the  ruddy  fulness, 
the  sensual  cast  of  our  earliest  physical  life,  im- 
press upon  Eve  the  principles  of  a  school  of  phi- 
losophy. The  criticism  made  upon  Milton  that 
seems  to  us  best  to  hold  against  him  is,  that  he  was 
not  always  able  perfectly  to  divorce  himself  from 
his  dialectics,  and,  as  the  pure  creative   artist,  to 


MILTON.  133 

hold  his  conceptions,  those  of  Gotl  and  of  Adam, 
aloof  from  every  bias  ;  the  one  in  the  grandeur 
of  his  impartial,  self-poised  nature,  the  other  in 
the  simplicity  and  typical  freedom  of  his  unper- 
verted  and  unwrought  character.  A  positive  tem- 
perament, advocacy,  controversial  aims,  are  un- 
favorable to  art,  as  they  warp  and  limit  the  ma- 
terial, and  distort  it  to  a  special  purpose.  There 
is  no  fullness,  no  repose  in  them,  and  hence  these 
fail  to  be  found  in  their  creations.  The  intensity  oi' 
the  Puritan  spirit,  so  far  as  it  lifted  Milton  high 
up  in  religious  sentiment,  was  favorable,  most 
favorable,  to  his  poetical  inspiration  ;  so  far  as  it 
bound  him  under  pains  and  penalties  to  a  limiterll 
and  precise  formula,  it  narrowed  his  imagination, 
and  gave  close-at-hand  and  harsh  limits  to  its 
creations. 

Milton  is  also  criticised  for  imparting  to  Satan 
heroic  elements  ;  we  think  unjustly.  Satan  is  not 
to  Milton  personified  sin,  he  is  a  real,  historic  char- 
acter; and  neither  philosophy,  nor  religion,  and 
still  less  poetry,  requires  that  such  an  one,  on  the 
instant,  through  his  whole  constitution,  should  be 
turned  to  weakness  and  corruption  by  the  touch  of 
evil.  There  are  no  such  utter  overthrows,  such 
violent  and  complete  transitions,  in  the  spiritual 
world.  Sin  is  an  insidious  mischief,  that  does  a 
slow,  unwholesome,  subtile  work.  It  should  find 
access  to  an  archangel  under  the  disguise  of  a 
noble,  independent,  courageous  impulse,  and,  once 
seated  in  the  heart,  turn  it  steadily  to  adamantine 
pride  and  hardness,  with  such  phosphorescent  flashes 


134      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

of  flyine:;  virtue  as  the  decayed,  irritable  mood  of  a 
great  soul  may  suffer.  Religious  art  too  often  mis- 
takes sin,  fails  of  its  true  paternity,  and  true  descent, 
by  not  tracing  the  slow,  sure  way  in  which  it  un- 
knits  the  virtiious  nature,  loosens  the  passions, 
and,  abolishing  one  divine  law  after  another,  turns 
all  things  into  misrule,  anarchy  and  night;  the  bit- 
ter and  exasperate  brood  of  appetite  and  lust.  If 
we  discern  this  fearful  and  steady  descent  of  sin,  it 
is  far  more  dreadful  than  one  mad  plunge,  which 
annihilates  distance,  and  puts  instantly  the  damned 
one  beyond  the  range  of  vision  and  sympathy.  Even 
physical  spaces  must  be  traversed,  and  so  defined 
for  the  mind. 

"  Nine  days  they  fell ;  confounded  chaos  roar'd, 
And  felt  tenfold  confusion  in  their  fall 
Through  his  wild  anarchy." 

This  epic  of  Milton  has  helped  to  close  the 
door  on  the  epic  of  mere  war  and  violence,  and  to 
affect  a  transfer  of  the  truly  heroic  into  more  purely 
moral  realms.  Henceforward  we  wait  on  the  bat- 
ties  of  spirits,  and  the  struggle  of  invisible  and 
spiritual  powers. 

We  have  placed  Milton  in  the  Elizabethan  age, 
not  because  he  belongs  there  in  a  mere  time 
division,  but  because  of  his  affinity  with  the  great 
inventive  spirits  that  composed  it.  As  a  root 
sends  up,  at  a  distance  from  the  parent  stock,  a 
rival  tree,  so  did  this  first  creative  force,  binding 
back  Milton  in  close  sympathy  to  Spenser,  after  its 
own  proper  era  had  passed  by,  yield  one  moie  of  its 
most  vigorous  products,  planted  in  the  middle  of 


A    TRANSITION    PERIOD.  1 35 

.ne  following  period.  Eras  lie  inrerlaced,  new 
forces  rising  in  the  heart  of  an  old  age,  old  forces 
lost  to  the  eye  in  the  heart  of  a  new  age. 

We  now  turn  to  a  transition  period,  the  last  half 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  lying  between  one  of 
criticism  and  one  of  creation  It  is  a  period  of  vio- 
lent contrasts.  Society  was  broken  up  by  extreme 
tendencies,  and  literature  was  divided  and  shaped 
by  the  spirit  of  the  party  to  which,  in  its  several 
forms,  it  was  attached.  The  liberty  of  thought  be- 
gotten by  the  reformation  in  England  had  been 
genuine  and  general.  The  nation,  though  aroused 
and  strengthened  by  it,  had,  in  the  reign  of  Eliza- 
beth, been  held  together.  Under  her  successors 
religious  and  political  liberty  became  closely  united, 
and  rapid,  earnest  minds  began  to  draw  off  into 
distinct  parties.  The  most  progressive  tendency, 
primarily  religious,  secondarily  political,  was  that 
of  the  Puritans.  Against  them  the  royalists,  the 
supporters  of  the  established  church  and  govern- 
ment, were  arrayed.  As  in  all  revolutionary  times, 
moderate  and  intermediate  opinions  became  power- 
less, and  an  open  conflict,  ripening  into  civil  war, 
swept  away  minor  differences,  consolidating  the  two 
extreme  parties  that  held  the  field.  Reform  is 
rarely  universal.  It  involves,  therefore,  separation, 
the  parting  of  elements,  which  have  been  compara- 
tively homogeneous,  mutually  restraining  each  other 
from  extreme  tendencies.  No  sooner,  however,  do 
the  portions  of  society  begin  to  divide,  to  stand  in 
direct  repulsion,  than,  electric  equilibrium  being 
overthrown,  we  have  two  defined  and  intense  poles 


136      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

of  counteraction.  Opposite  tendencies,  which  be- 
fore checked,  now  irritate  and  enhance,  each  other; 
and  cause  the  attitude  of  both  parties  to  become 
more  extreme  than  it  would  be,  if  each  were  left  to 
its  own  free  bent.  The  sweeping  away  of  interven- 
ing persons  and  parties,  the  steady  concentration 
of  hostile  camps,  the  looking  upon  every  act  and 
measure  first  of  all  in  its  belligerent  character,  the 
blinding  and  distorting  effect  of  mutual  hatred,  all 
serve  to  give  a  violent  wrench  and  warp  to  the  minds 
of  either  division,  and  force  upon  them  an  extreme, 
and  often  irrational,  attitude,  begotten  of  collision, 
and  quite  opposed  to  sober,  constructive,  propor- 
tionate thought. 

It  is  this  which  makes  reformatory  periods  so 
critical.  A  dividing  line  appears,  and  men  are 
driven  to  the  one  side  or  the  other,  often  sadly 
against  the  minor  tendencies  of  their  constitution. 
Those  who  are  reluctant  to  cast  up  accounts,  to 
strike  a  balance,  or  to  settle,  by  leading  considera- 
tions, their  method  of  action,  find  themselves  tossed 
about  by  a  conflict  they  cannot  still,  and  at  length 
compelled  to  shelter  themselves  under  opinions 
they  would  never  willingly  have  accepted.  The 
reign  of  Elizabeth  had  been  one  of  coalescence,  and 
thus  of  mutual  restraint;  those  of  James  and  of 
Charles  were  marked,  first  by  separation,  then  by 
intense  strife. 

The  Puritan  character  was  not  the  product  of 
peace,  but  of  war ;  it  had  grown  up  beaten  on  and 
bowed  by  severe  winds.  It  showed  in  every  limb 
and  twig  the  twist  of  the  strong  currents  in  which  it 


PURITAN    CHARACTER.  I37 

had  stood,  and  with  which  it  had  battled.  We  may 
laugh  at  the  rigor  of  its  precepts,  its  social  austerity, 
its  stubborn  creed,  but  these  had  been  nic.de  a  ne- 
cessity to  it  by  the  nature  of  the  conflict  on  which  it 
had  entered.  If  religious  laxity  and  social  license 
are  to  be  withstood,  they  will  immediately  drive  the 
reformatory  party  into  vigorous,  pitiless,  unsympa- 
thetic attack.  Only  thus  can  they  separate  them- 
selves, and  become  belligerent.  Total  abstinence 
is  the  offspring  of  general  intoxication.  Thus  the 
two  parties  in  England  forced  each  other  to  the  last 
results  of  their  respective  tendencies.  The  warfare 
was  not  one  merely  of  principles,  but  of  principles 
wrought  into  social  life,  compacted  and  extravagant- 
ly developed  in  tastes,  manners  and  literature. 

The  Puritan,  scrupulous,  unbending,  severely  in 
earnest,  was  railed  at  as  a  fanatic,  bigot  and  hypo- 
crite. The  royalist,  irreligious  and  reckless,  cling- 
ing to  the  easy  and  comfortable  shelter  of  old  forms 
in  government  and  faith,  easily  fell  iuto  levity  and 
lewdness,  and  seemed  to  his  adversary  little  better 
than  a  papist  or  an  infidel.  •  On  the  one  hand  re- 
buke, on  the  other  ridicule,  increased  their  mutual 
aversion.  The  courtier  felt  that  he  defied  the  Pu- 
ritan in  defying  decency ;  and  the  Puritan  rejected 
the  follies  of  the  world  the  more  warmly  for  being 
the  follies  of  the  royalist.  When  we  can  hate  our 
own  and  God's  enemies  at  the  same  time,  we  are 
wont  to  hate  with  a  will. 

To  carry  this  movement  to  its  extreme  limit, 
nothing  was  needed  but  a  transfer  of  power  back- 
wards and  forwards  from  party  to  party,  that  each 


138       THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

in  turn  might  suffer  the  tyranny  of  the  other.  This 
took  place  in  the  overthrow  which  the  troops  of 
Cromwell  brought  to  the  throne.  The  contempt  of 
the  royalist  for  the  Puritan  was  then  lost  in  hatred. 
When,  therefore,  at  the  restoration,  embittered 
not  instructed  by  misfortune,  he  once  more  gained 
control,  took  possession  of  society,  opened  the  the- 
atres, and  assumed  the  guidance  of  literature,  it 
is  not  strange  that  there  was  such  an  outbreak 
of  immorality  and  misrule  as  England  had  not  be- 
fore witnessed.  The  evil  was  so  excessive  as  to 
cure  itself  A  reaction  set  in,  resulting  in  the  rev- 
olution of  eighty-eight.  The  harshness  of  the  an- 
tagonism was  once  more  softened  down,  and  the 
elements  were  again  so  far  blended  as  to  make  so- 
ciety possible  and  bearable.  Thus  way  was  made 
for  a  new  era  in  society  and  literature. 

In  this  rocking,  revolutionary  age,  by  which  the 
nation  was  carried  forward  from  Elizabeth  to 
William  and  Anne,  from  Shakespeare  to  Pope  and 
Addison,  we  have  only  conflicting  and  transition 
tendencies,  conflict  itself  involving  a  transfer  and 
readjustment  of  forces,  the  overthrow  of  an  old 
equilibrium  and  the  construction  of  a  new  one. 

The  first  of  these  conflicts  is  that  of  the  relig- 
ious, political  and  social  parties  now  glanced  at, 
each  a  passionate  and  partial  development,  though 
the  one  was  generally  just  and  right  in  its  ten- 
dency, and  the  other  as  generally  wayward  and 
wrong.  Art,  seeking  balance,  proportion,  beauty 
in  its  products,  suffered  on  either  side,  yet  not 
equally.     In  the  sound,  earnest,  progressive  spirit 


PURITAN    CHARACFEK.  I39 

i)f  the  Puritans,  there  were  hidden  germs  of 
growth;  in  the  worn  out,  effete,  corrupt  spirit  of  the 
cavaher,  there  could  finally  be  found  nothing  but 
death,  though  the  glow  and  flush  of  a  free,  reckless 
life  still  lingered.  The  Hudibras  of  Butler  pre- 
sents, perhaps,  the  best  literary  embodiment  of  this 
party.  Full  of  wit,  indicating  large  resources  of 
knowledge,  it  is  sensual,  disconnected  and  radically 
false  to  the  characters  it  satirizes.  We  are  sur- 
prised at  the  wasted  ability  and  blind  bitterness  it 
evinces.  That  satire  of  this  extreme  and  disjointed 
character  should  be  the  best  literary  effort  of  the 
royalists,  while  the  Puritans  were  nourishing  the 
genius  of  Milton,  and  from  their  lowest  ranks,  by 
the  strength  of  the  spirit  that  ruled  them,  bringing 
forth  the  rare  talents  of  Punyan,  shows  with  whom 
alone  a  genuine  and  productive  purpose  was  found. 
Dislike  may  beget  malignant  satire,  culture  may 
call  forth  wit,  levity  may  make  sprightly  a  licen- 
tious stage,  and  the  gayety  of  polite  society  may 
concentrate  these  products  into  a  period  of  ephem- 
eral brilliancy,  but  nothing  noble  and  sincere  will 
thus  be  created,  passing  on  for  the  admiration  of 
subsequent  generations.  In  lyrical  poetry  two  con- 
flicting sentiments,  the  devotional  and  the  amatory, 
held  the  field.  As  in  Herbert  and  Lovelace,  strong 
contrasts  were  everywhere  present. 

The  literature  of  a  theological  and  practical 
character  fell  largely  to  the  Puritans.  This, 
through  its  didactic  ends  and  transient  uses,  neces- 
sarily held  an  insignificant  place  in  letters.  The 
drama,  early  attacked  by  the  Puritans,  passed  into 


140      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    UTEkATUKE. 

the  hands  of  the  royaUsts.  Suppressed  during  the 
Commonwealth  and  Protectorate,  it  was  revived  at 
the  Restoration,  under  the  most  immediate  influ- 
ence of  the  court  party.  The  consequence  was  that 
the  drama,  while  marked  with  some  high  intellect- 
ual qualities,  more  especially  those  of  wit  and  in- 
sight, now  became  more  corrupt  than  ever  before, 
had  in  it  less  constructive  power,  and  disconnected 
itself  from  this  time  onward  almost  wholly  from 
literature. 

Passing  this  period,  only  here  and  there  do  we 
find  one  eminent  in  literary  art,  as  Goldsmith  and 
Sheridan,  whose  reputation  is  at  all  associated  with 
the  theatre.  The  later  writers  of  the  drama,  as 
Shelley,  Byron,  Browning,  look  for  an  audience  and 
a  criticism  entirely  disconnected  from  the  stage  ; 
their  plays  are  of  a  purely  literary  character ;  while 
those  whose  productions  have  been  primarily  com- 
posed for  the  theatre  are,  most  of  them,  scarcely 
known  in  the  literary  world.  Thus  play-writing  has 
either  sunk  to  a  practical,  money-making  art  ;  or, 
reserving  itself  for  literature,  has  forgotten  the  ex- 
ternal, immediate  ends  that  in  the  outset  gave  rise 
to  it.  This  separation  followed  close  upon  the 
drama  of  the  Restoration,  most  of  whose  products, 
rank  with  profligacy,  have  fallen  into  that  decay 
which  now  so  speedily  overtakes  this  class  of 
composition. 

The  abasement  of  this  period  was  found,  not 
merely  in  outspoken  licentiousness  and  vile  inu- 
endo,  but  in  the  entire  construction  of  the  play. 
Sexual  intrigue  Vv'as  made  a  chief  line  of  adventure, 


THE    THEATRE.  I4I 

a  crusade  against  female  virtue  the  passion  of  every 
spirited  courtier,  his  traditionary  field  of  arras ; 
while  husbands,  fathers,  brothers  were  the  Saracens 
and  Turks  who  unlawfully  held  the  holy  land.  No 
deeper  corruption  of  human  thought  and  activity 
is  to  be  conceived  of,  and  the  occasional  virtue 
of  some  rare  character,  made  to  turn  on  sexua 
purity,  served  only  to  show,  in  the  extravagant  sen- 
timent that  was  gathered  about  it,  that  men  sinned 
wittingly,  and  caught  single  glimpses,  though  very 
false  and  partial  ones,  of  the  heaven  from  which 
they  had  been  cast  out.  When  the  most  ordinary 
possession  of  a  pure  mind  is  exalted  into  a  rhapsody 
of  virtue,  we  see  at  once  how  fearfully  men  have 
fallen  off  from  the  familiar  laws  of  morality.  The 
corruption  of  the  many,  men  and  women,  no  more 
betrays  the  fatal  secret  of  the  low,  appetitive  life 
all  were  leading,  than  the  sentimental  enshrine- 
ment  of  here  and  there  a  heroine,  whose  mantle  of 
honor  is  after  all  little  more  than  the  ordinary  pu- 
rity of  her  sex.  This  debasement  in  the  substance 
of  thought  and  sentiment  easily  united  itself  to  a 
like  decay  in  form.  Thus  the  dignity  of  blank 
verse  often  gave  way  to  the  more  external,  sensual 
effect  of  rhyme  ;  or  the  comedy,  stooping  altogether 
to  the  portrayal  of  indecency  and  vice,  lost  fellow- 
ship with  fine  art,  became  prose,  and  satisfied  the 
coarse  minds  it  fed  with  the  mere  garbage  of  vul- 
garity, flung  out  in  the  quickest,  easiest  fashion. 

The  degenerac)'  of  the  practical  drama  thus 
commenced  has  remained  with  us,  in  a  greater  or 
less  degree,  for  various  reasons.     A   theatre  is  a 


142      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    L ITE R A T U K.E. 

money-making  institution,  and  must,  therefore, 
strive  to  interest  as  many  as  possible.  Its  appeals 
must  be  to  the  masses  seeking  amusement.  Hence 
it  is  confined  to  large  cities.  In  these  cities  its 
efforts  must  be  directed  to  those  in  search  of  pleas- 
ure, and  therefore  to  those  quite  partially,  rather  thai: 
to  those  highly  cultivated  ;  to  those  desiring  coarse 
stimulus,  rather  than  to  those  in  love  with  refined 
sentiment.  Such  is  the  spirit  of  a  theatrical  audi- 
ence, not  merely  from  their  native  quality,  but  fron: 
the  time  devoted  to  this  amusement,  and  the  part 
it  plays  of  hilarity  and  excitement  in  their  daily 
lives.  The  theatre  is  thus  compelled  to  bow  to  a 
money  necessity,  a  relatively  menial  service,  and  so 
to  miss,  in  whole  or  in  part,  its  own  aesthetical  end. 
This  falling  ofif  from  purity  has  all  along  been 
felt,  was  felt  during  the  restoration,  had  been  pre- 
viously felt.  In  the  period  under  consideration  it 
called  for  censure,  provoked  hostility  on  the  part  of 
earnest  minds,  and  thus  early  created  a  moral  sen- 
timent, which,  to  the  present  hour,  pressing  hard 
upon  the  theatre,  has  accelerated  its  downward 
tendencies  If  the  most  intelligent  and  moral  re- 
fuse to  be  pleased,  and  withhold  their  patronage, 
much  more  must  the  classes  less  critical  in  these 
respects  be  gratified.  The  patrons  must  control 
the  play.  Thus  the  theatre,  as  a  rule,  in  recent 
times,  has  been  forced  below  the  level  of  high  art, 
first,  by  the  interested  monetary  motives  that  govern 
it ;  and,  second,  by  an  adverse  moral  sentiment, 
passing  it  over  still  more  unreservedly  to  sensuous 
pastime  and  pleasure,  to  comedy  and  farce.     This 


THE   THEATRE.  I43 

degeneracy  of  the  theatre  has  been  partial  and  va- 
riable, rather  than  complete,  relative  rather  than 
absolute.  There  have  been  places  and  spasms  of 
improvement,  and  the  general  moral  elevation  of 
society  has  told  powerfully  here  as  elsewhere. 

This    downward    literary  tendency  the    theatre 
has  also  accepted    and    confirmed    by  its  manage 
ment.     Its  expenditures  on  scenic  effects  have  been 
of  the  most  lavish  character.      Herein  the  modern 
stands  in  striking  contrast  with  the  early  stage. 

The  rush-strewn  boards  that  Shakespeare  trod 
almost  under  the  open  sky,  lounged  on  by  a  ban- 
tering nobility,  pressed  close  by  a  rude,  noisy 
crowd,  had  little  in  common  with  the  luxury,  the 
gaslight,  the  brilliant,  sensuous  appeals  of  the 
modern  theatre ;  and  we  may  easily  believe,  that 
the  hold  on  reality  in  action  was  in  the  same 
stern  spirit,  as  were  these  coarse,  homely  relations 
to  facts. 

Every  possibility  has  been  exhausted  to  amuse 
and  delight  men  through  their  senses,  thus  trans- 
ferring the  chief  effect  from  the  intellectual  to  the 
physical  world.  A  newspaper  critic  gives  the  fol- 
lowing description  of  one  of  these  modern  plays : 
"  It  includes  a  burning  house,  a  modern  bar- 
room, real  gin  cock-tails,  a  river-side  pier,  a  steam- 
boat in  motion,  the  grand  saloon  or  state-cabin 
of  the  steamboat,  the  deck  of  the  same,  the  wheel- 
house,  the  funnels,  and  the  steamboat  in  flames; 
and  all  these  objects  are  presented  with  singular 
fidelity  to  their  originals."  Here  is  a  show  in  it- 
self quite  sufficient  to  captivate  the  popular  mind. 


144    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATUKE, 

Sentiment  and  character  would  be  a  gratuitous  ad- 
dition. It  prepares  us  to  hear  a  Hive  critic  say 
of  a  similar  play,  "  It  is  not  a  work  of  literature, 
but  a  work  of  business.  The  piece  is  a  rough 
conglomeration  of  the  nothings  of  the  passing 
hour — objects  and  incidents  drawn,  but  not  al- 
ways drawn  with  accuracy,  from  the  streets,  the 
public  conveyances,  the  haunts  of  profligacy. 
These  nothings  are  offered  for  their  own  sake, 
and  not  made  tributary  to  any  intellectual  pur- 
pose whatever."  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
readings  do  not  now  furnish  a  more  pure  intel- 
'ectual  rendering  of  dramatic  composition  than 
Joes  the  stage. 

Another  cause  which  depresses  the  theatre, 
without  affecting  the  drama  as  a  written  product, 
Is  the  unfitness  of  high  ethical  sentiment,  magnan- 
imity, faith,  love  to  constitute  a  public  spectacle 
for  a  mixed,  careless,  critical  audience  of  cold,  su- 
perficial amateurs,  such  as  are  wont  to  frequent 
our  theatres.  Fine  scenery,  violent  declamation, 
showy  beauty,  and  rich  attire  invite  a  battery  of 
opera-glasses ;  not  so  the  deep,  secret  emotions 
with  which  the  heart  wrestles,  nor  its  holiest  af- 
fections, nor  its  purest  adorations  ;  these  all  draw 
back  till  they  can  disclose  themselves,  like  the 
opening  flower,  in  a  light  t?\at  quickens  and  re- 
news them.  How  the  idle  claps,  following  hard 
on  a  scene  of  pathos,  tumble  down  the  airy  fabric 
of  our  sympathies,  like  a  card  house,  and  choke 
us  again  with  the  dust  of  a  noisy,  conventional 
life. 


FRENCH    AND    ENGLISH    ART.  145 

The  literary  drama  and  the  theatre  parted 
company,  because  the  hmited  and  sensuous  aims 
of  the  one  were  not  consistent  with  the  high  bent 
of  the  other ;  and  the  separation  dates  from  this 
deep  decline  of  the  English  stage. 

A  second  conflict  which  reveals  the  agencies 
at  work  in  this  transition  period  was  that  be- 
tAveen  French  and  English  art.  The  French  lit- 
erature was  now  ready  to  exert  a  strong  influ- 
ence on  the  English  mind.  Easily  uniting  itself 
to  the  classical  taste,  with  which  it  is  so  closely 
affiliated,  it  constituted  the  chief  foreign  power 
which  affected  this  period.  The  English  court 
was  in  close  sympathy  with  France.  There  it  had 
spent  the  years  of  its  banishment,  and  returned, 
emulous  of  the  tastes  and  refinements  of  its  al- 
lies. The  brilliant  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  was  in 
progress,  the  great  epoch  of  French  letters. 
Dryden,  the  earliest  critic  of  England,  favored 
in  many  respects  the  new  refinements,  as  they 
were  thought,  of  art.  French  words,  chiefly  of  a 
polite,  social  cast,  found  their  way  into  our 
language.  Rhymed  verse  was  introduced  into 
the  drama,  and  it,  in  keeping  with  this  change, 
strove  to  assume  in  dialogue  the  sprightly  refine- 
ment, wit  and  declamatory  force  of  the  French 
stage.  These  tendencies  were  in  conflict  with  the 
freedom  and  vigor  of  the  previous  age,  with  its 
thorough  English  spirit.  Thus  Dryden,  with  eyes 
couched  by  the  new  criticism,  was  led  to  say, 
"  Let  any  man  who  understands  English  read 
diligently  the  works  of  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher, 
7 


146    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

and  I  dare  undertake,  that  he  will  find  in  every 
page  either  some  solecism  of  speech,  or  some 
notorious  flaw  in  sense." 

This  new  art,  and  this  freedom  and  refinement 
of  manners,  which  the  English  at  this  time  thought 
to  win  under  the  lead  of  the  French,  resulted  in  a 
feebleness,  coarseness  and  debauchery,  which  those 
whom  they  imitated  have  been  quite  ready  to  laugh 
at.  Says  Taine  of  these  years,  "There  were  two 
classes,  natural  beings  on  the  one  hand,  and  artifi- 
cial ones  on  the  other;  the  first,  with  the  coarseness 
and  sharaelessness  of  their  primitive  inclinations,  the 
second,  with  the  frivolities  and  vices  of  worldly 
habits ;  the  first,  uncultivated,  their  simplicity  re- 
vealing nothing  but  their  innate  baseness ;  the  sec- 
ond, cultivated,  their  refinement  instilling  into  them 
nothing  but  new  corruption."* 

English  character  is  so  little  allied  to  French 
character,  that  it  is  at  once  made  unsound  and 
superficial  by  imitation.  The  moral  force  is  central 
in  the  Englishman.  It  is  and  must  be  momentarily 
operative  for  good  or  evil  in  his  action.  The  French  ■ 
'man  more  easily  leaves  it  one  side,  or  out  of  sight, 
and  can  reach  a  free  surface  life,  in  a  measure  for- 
getful of  it.  Hence  sin,  social  sin,  always  bears  a 
deeper,  more  gross  and  sanguinary  tinge  with  riie 
English  than  with  the  French.  They  are  com- 
pelled to  recognize  their  own  indecency,  and  it 
thus  becomes  a  double  irritation.  They  strike  every 
instant  against  the  moral  law,  and  feel  the  wound- 
ing recoil.     Their  eyes  are  open  in  each  transgres- 

*  Taine's  English  Literature,  vol.  1.  p.  512. 


THE  FRENCH  AND  THE  ENGLISH.       I47 

sion  to  their  new  infamy,  and  they  are  proportionately 
intoxicated  and  maddened  by  it.  The  French,  as 
skaters  upon  the  ice,  ghde  gracefully  along  on  a 
surface  sentiment,  an  aesthetical  tendency,  and 
rarely  pierce  the  film  to  the  waters  beneath,  which 
support  it,  seldom  penetrate  the  depths  of  their  own 
moral  being;  the  English  sail  on  an  open  sea,  they 
are  restrained  by  a  heavier,  less  manageable  ele- 
ment, they  bear  more  with  them,  and  tack  and  turn, 
not  in  mere  sportiveness,  but  in  the  pursuit  of  some 
proportionate  good,  while  collision  is  irretrievable 
shipwreck.  They  cannot  reach  the  gayety  and  in- 
difference of  the  Frenchman,  and  for  them  to  affect 
it,  is  to  betray  themselves  at  once  into  folly  and 
corruption.  No  man  is  so  cold  and  shameless  as 
an  Englishman,  a  Lord  Chesterfield,  built  upon  a 
French  model.  He  is  to  the  native  born  French- 
man what  a  skating  rink  is  to  the  mountain  lake : 
first  there  is  a  thin  layer  of  ice,  and  then  a  thick 
layer  of  mud,  with  no  interior  flow,  no  depth,  no 
beauty  between  them.  A  Frenchman  and  an  Italian 
when  they  drive,  crack  the  whip  over  the  heads  and 
about  the  ears  of  their  horses,  as  if  urging  them  on 
with  a  fusilade  of  musketry.  The  animals  soon 
learn  that  this  is  only  the  froth  and  hilarity  of  mo- 
tion, and  maintain  a  quiet  trot.  An  English  horse 
would  be  maddened  beyond  control  by  such  stimu- 
lus, and  dash  off  in  a  break-neck  race.  His  nerves 
are  too  many,  and  too  much  alive,  to  endure  this 
extravagance  of  stimulus.  Like  his  master,  he 
must  have  a  sober  rule,  or  run  away  altogether. 
The   third   conflict   of  the  period  was  allied  to 


148     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

this  one  of  nationalities,  it  was  that  between  crea- 
tion and  criticism.  We  have  termed  the  era  a  transi- 
tion one.  It  lay  between  the  two  most  distinct, 
pronounced  and  vigorous  stages  in  English  literary 
life.  Bold,  independent  movement,  powerful  inven- 
tion, belonged  to  the  previous  age.  Its  teachers  of 
art  were  few,  of  the  cast  of  Jonson,  who,  with  an  au- 
thoritative temper,  enclosed  art  very  much  within 
his  own  personal  bias,  was  neither  very  attentive  to 
it  himself  beyond  his  predilections,  nor  very  suc- 
cessful in  enforcing  it  upon  others.  The  most  mas- 
tered art  only  by  that  mastery  of  their  own  re- 
sources which  belongs  to  power.  In  the  period  we 
are  now  considering,  invention,  having  gathered  the 
first  harvest,  was  gleaning  autumnal  fields.  It  felt 
also  the  force  of  that  new,  colder,  more  critical 
phase  of  thought,  which  was  approaching.  Litera- 
ture had  expended  its  projectile  power,  and  was  be- 
ing swept  in  by  a  rhetoric,  esoteric  tendency  which 
had  sprung  up  in  the  cultivated  mind,  ready  to  con- 
trol every  free,  aberrant  thought.  Times  of  transi- 
tion are  often  inferior  alike  to  those  which  precede 
them  and  those  which  follow  them.  They  offer  no 
perfect,  no  single  and  sufficient  impulse,  but  are 
distracted  and  distorted  by  conflicting  forces.  Dry- 
den  is  full  of  criticism,  yet  presents  no  sustained  and 
consistent  practice  under  it.  He  has  moments  of 
original  power,  but  these  are  lost  in  the  waste  inter- 
vals of  imperfect  art.  Neither  tendency  being  ex- 
clusively trusted  to,  but  both  in  turn  betrayed,  each 
fails  to  justify  the  writer.  There  is  art  enough  to 
offer  a  ready  standard  to  censure,  there  is  native 


TRANSITION.  1 49 

force  enough  to  make  us  uneasy  and  regretful  un- 
der the  restrictions  of  a  stumbling,  hesitating  art. 

The  transition  persons,  in  whom  the  new  move- 
ment first  appeared,  are  usually  given  as  Waller 
and  Denham ;  and  this,  in  large  part,  from  the  esti- 
mate in  which  Dryden,  Pope  and  their  cotcmpora- 
ries  held  these  poets.  "Well  placing  of  words  for 
the  sweetness  of  pronunciation  was  not  known  till 
Mr.  Waller  introduced  it,"  says  Dryden.  And 
again,  "The  excellence  and  dignity  of  rhyme  were 
never  fully  understood  till  Waller  taught  it  in  lyric ; 
and  Denham  in  epic  poesy."  Pope  terms  the  latter 
of  these,  the  "Majestic  Denham."  That  poets  so 
secondary  as  these  two,  whose  excellence  is  at  best 
^o  formal,  should  have  initiated  a  new  tendency, 
goes  to  show  how  cold  and  lifeless  was  the  school 
of  poetry  ready  to  come  forward.  In  this  conflict 
between  criticism  and  invention,  the  royalist  and 
French  influence  favored  the  former.  Though  these 
themselves  were  transient  forces  in  English  society, 
united  with  an  inherent  tendency  toward  critical 
art,  of  which  we  shall  speak  more  fully  in  connec- 
tion with  the  next  period,  they  were  able  to  give 
form  for  a  full  century  to  English  literature. 

The  undisputed  chief  of  this  transition  time  was 
Dryden,  a  man  every  way  typical  of  it.  He  may  be 
set  down  as  the  first  autocrat  in  the  realm  of  Eng- 
lish letters  ;  as  the  founder  of  that  dynasty  in  whose 
line  of  descent  are  found  Pope  and  Johnson.  The 
very  fact  of  such  an  authority  is  significant.  Lit- 
erary rule  in  the  club  and  coffee-house  falls  to  the 
critical,  rather  than  to  the  inventive  mind.     Crea- 


150    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE, 

tion  is  coy,  lifts  a  man  more  or  less  away  from 
his  fellows,  may  diminish,  rather  than  increase,  his 
control  over  them ;  and  brings  with  it  stimulus,  in- 
direct guidance,  rather  than  instant,  definite  govern- 
ment. Criticism,  on  the  other  hand,  is  at  once  in- 
telligible, is  dictatorial,  and  arraigns  before  itself  all 
parties.  Shakespeare  was  not  in  his  generation,  at 
the  Mermaid,  such  a  ruler  as  Dryden  in  his ;  in- 
deed the  reins  in  that  earlier  period  fell  rather  to 
Jonson,  the  critic  of  the  Shakesperian  circle.  The 
seat  of  Dryden's  authority  was  Will's  coffee-houscj 
and  he  owed  his  influence  to  the  fact,  that  he  united 
the  critical  function  to  his  creative  power;  that  he 
enforced  art  by  that  theory  and  precept  which  make 
the  critic  the  expounder  of  his  own  times,  rather 
than  by  that  genius  which  pushes  its  possessor  in 
r.dvance  of  his  age,  conquering  for  him  a  kingdom 
:n  the  future.  Dryden  held  easy  and  sovereign 
sway  as  one  who  most  skilfully  inquired  into,  court- 
ed and  controlled  the  literary  predilections  of  the 
period. 

His  character  led  him  to  conciliation  and  con- 
cession. He  was  governed  by  no  supreme,  ele- 
vated impulse,  he  was  a  devotee  to  no  theory,  but 
with  considerable  insight  and  power  of  adaptation, 
adjusted  his  action  to  the  predominant  impressions, 
the  passing  circumstances.  He  undertook  literary 
labor  as  work,  and  wrought  at  it  as  one  apprenticed 
to  the  business,  rather  than  as  one  who  felt  chiefly 
ihe  control  of  inspiration,  who  built  above  and  be- 
yond the  style  about  him,  by  impulses  transcending 
it.     He  bound  himself  to  furnish  a  certain  number 


DRYDEN.  151 

of  plays  each  year,  and,  like  a  shrewd  contractor, 
tried  to  fill  the  order  in  a  manner  agreeable  to  the 
taste  of  those  who  gave  it.  In  one  play,  breaking 
through  this  tacit  contract  with  his  times,  he  signal- 
izes the  fact  by  the  title,  "  All  for  Love."  He  him- 
self says  :  "  1  confess  my  chief  endeavors  are  to 
delight  the  age  in  which  I  live.  If  the  humor  of 
this  be  for  low  comedy,  small  accidents,  and  rail- 
lery, I  will  force  my  genius  to  obey  it." 

If  his  genius,  as  he  flatteringly  terms  it,  had 
been  greater,  he  could  never  have  bowed  it  to  this 
servile  work.  It  would,  in  sheer  wilfulness,  in  sim- 
ple self-assertion,  have  refused  the  ser\dtude.  As 
it  was,  it  couched  like  the  strong  ass  Issachar,  be- 
tween two  burdens.  Seeing  that  rest  was  good, 
and  the  land  pleasant,  it  bowed  the  shoulder  to 
bear.  So  much  was  his  vision,  his  intellectual 
vision,  above  his  practical  bias,  that  in  the  end  he 
confesses,  "  I  have  been  myself  too  much  of  a  lib- 
ertine in  most  of  my  poems,  which  I  should  be  well 
contented,  if  I  had  time,  either  to  purge,  or  to  see 
them  fairly  burned." 

So  far  did  he  allow  the  badness  of  the  passing 
years  to  push  him  from  the  purposes  of  art,  that 
Walter  Scott  says  of  him,  "  His  indelicacy  was  like 
the  forced  impudence  of  a  bashful  man."  We  are 
led  to  wish  in  him  either  more  or  less  power ;  more, 
that  he  may  better  command  adverse  influences ; 
or  less,  that  he  may  sink  under  them  unregretted. 
The  weakness  of  Dryden  was  a  moral  one,  a  want 
of  firmness,  coherence  and  vigor  in  those  ethical 
impulses  which  direct  and  keep  true  the  intellectual 


152     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

powers.  There  was  no  one  central  fire  in  his  nature, 
which,  with  a  lifting  current,  gathered  up  and  ele- 
vated his  thoughts,  stirred  the  flame,  or  bore  its 
sparks  in  one  brilliant  shower  toward  heaven. 

This  weakness  of  the  faith  elements  is  seen  in 
his  religious  belief.  He  drifted  from  Puritanism 
through  the  Church  of  England  over  into  Catholi- 
cism, resting  at  length  under  a  charge  of  mercen- 
ary tergiversation.  There  are  two  classes,  who,  by 
a  bias  of  nature,  are  inclined  toward  the  Catholic 
Church.  The  erudite,  on  whom  antiquity  has  pro- 
foundly impressed  itself,  whose  piety  is  of  a  medi- 
tative, poetic  cast ;  and  who,  like  fragile  and  beau- 
tiful blue-bells,  care  not  so  much  for  the  depth  of 
the  soil  they  thrive  in,  as  to  feel  the  rock,  un- 
broken, earth-centred,  just  beneath  them  ;  and 
those  with  whom  religion  is  a  matter  of  necessity 
rather  than  choice,  a  thing  of  fears  and  supersti- 
tions, and  who  covet  the  shelter  of  a  church  which 
will  take  all  risks  upon  itself,  and  guarantee  its 
disciples  on  easy  terms.  Dryden  seems  to  us  to 
belong  to  the  second  class.  A  superstitious  feel- 
ing is  shown  in  his  casting  the  nativity  of  his  son  ; 
and  his  restlessness  under  religious  influences,  yet 
sensitiveness  to  them,  in  his  dislike  of  the  clergy. 

"  Kings  and  preests  are  in  a  manner  bound, 
For  reverence  sake,  to  be  close  hypocrites." 

How  did  this  ethical  weakness  in  Dryden  affect 
him  in  art?  He  is  admitted  to  have  possessed  fine 
powers.  Passages  of  striking  beauty  are  found  in 
his  works ;  but  they  are  thinly  scattered,  and  do 
not  cluster  anywhere  in  such  number  or  order  as 


DRYDEN.  153 

to  constitute  one  great  work.  His  plays  are  so 
polluted,  that  we  no  more  covet  their  wit  than  the 
garments  that  smoulder  with  buried  kings.  He 
wrote  them  avowedly  under  the  mean,  mercantile 
inspiration  of  the  sentiment,  "  He  who  lives  to 
please,  must  please  to  live."  Falling  by  these 
words  of  shrewd  concession  from  the  heights  of  the 
moral  world,  there  happened  to  lie  under  him,  for 
his  reception,  nothing  but  the  sensuality  of  a  court 
society,  just  passing  out  of  life  by  spontaneous 
decay.  Here,  at  this  altar  of  lust,  he  ministered, 
and  his  plays  have  perished  with  it.  In  his  ruling 
sentiment,  just  given,  he  struck  the  key-note  of 
dissolution  in  the  English  drama,  of  its  sad  dissolv- 
ing melody.  Ceasing  to  be  filled  with  its  own  life, 
and  anxious  only  for  immediate  gains,  it  has  sunk 
from  an  art  to  an  avocation  ;  and  its  composers, 
from  artists  to  playwrights.  Only  great  actors  en- 
able it  for  a  brief  period  to  return  to  the  tragedies 
of  Shakespeare. 

His  poems  are  largely  satirical,  didactic,  po- 
lemic. The  excellencies  that  lie  on  this  low  grade, 
he  attained  ;  conciseness  of  thought,  aptness  of  ex- 
pression, pomp  and  majesty  of  language,  an  occa- 
sional beautiful  image,  critical  prefaces  rivalling  in 
interest  the  poems  that  follow  them,  lively  versions, 
vigorous  translations,  and  an  increasing  mastery  of 
the  formal  conditions  of  verse.  Against  these  at- 
tainments lie  the  facts,  that  his  works  as  a  whole 
are  heavy,  tedious  ;  that  they  never  quite  justify  his 
talent ;  that  he  seems  to  feel  a  better  impulse  than 
that  which  he  obeys  ;  to  work  at  little  things  with 
7' 


154    1HE    PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

passing  visions  of  greater  ones ;  and  in  the  end  is 
content,  that  his  poems,  for  the  most  part,  should  be 
burned,  a  sentiment  in  which  he  and  the  world  may 
well  be  at  one  again.  Says  Voltaire  of  him  "  An 
author  who  would  have  had  a  glory  without  a  blem- 
ish, if  he  had  only  written  the  tenth  part  of  his 
works."  '•'•" 

To  us  his  weakness  is  that  of  the  circle  in  which 
he  moved.  He  lacked  virile,  moral  force,  which  is 
to  the  poet  what  it  is  to  the  man,  the  spring,  the 
coil  of  his  intellectual  mechanism,  driving  his  ideas, 
giving  them  firm  rotation,  and  causing  them  to 
cleave  to  the  function  and  motion  that  are  in  them, 
as  the  earth  revolves  under  its  own  gravitative  im- 
pulse. The  moral  nature  is  looked  on  as  merely 
formal,  didactic,  preceptive ;  it  is  rather  the  very 
essence,  the  organizing  power  of  spiritual  life  ;  and 
unless  one  is  by  it  thrown  at  some  point  into  sym- 
pathy with  pregnant  principles,  geared  into  the  per- 
manent world  of  ideas,  belted  to  human  progress, 
his  work  must  be  cold  and  poor  and  transient,  wait- 
ing on  oblivion. 

•  Voltaire,  p.  83. 


LECTURE   VII. 

The  balance  of  Two  Periods,  the  Creative  and  the  Critical. — The 
School  of  Pope — its  Value — Relation  to  Poetry  and  Prose. — 
Causes  which  produced  it,  {a)  Natural  Sequence  of  Criticism  on 
Creation,  {/>)  External  Influences,  {c)  Science  and  Philosophy  of 
the  Time. 

Social  Spirit  of  the  Period. — Improved  by  Literature. — The  Papers 
of  Steele  and  Addison. — Service  of. — Qualities  of  Literary  Lead- 
ership.— Chief  Men — Swift  and  Pope,  Steele  and  Addison. 

Two  periods  in  English  Literature  stand  in  nat- 
ural equipoise,  both  great  under  their  own  specific 
forms,  the  creative  period  of  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabetli,  and  the  critical  period  of  the  time  of 
Queen  Anne.  We  have  spoken  of  the  transition  un- 
der Dryden  by  which  English  Letters  passed  over 
from  Spenser,  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  to  Pope,  Swift 
and  Addison.  This  period  of  pre-eminent  art  is  held 
in  very  different  honor  by  different  critics,  and  has 
been  assigned  a  rank  varying  from  the  highest  al- 
most to  the  lowest.  The  early  portion  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  was  long  regarded  as  the  Augustan 
age  of  England.  Its  spirit  ruled  the  entire  century, 
and  only  slowly  lost  ground  at  its  close.  It  was  the 
reduction  of  its  influence,  the  reaction  against  it, 
that  gave  occasion  to  a  second  creative  period  at 
the  commencement  of  the  present  century,  This 
artistic  tendency,  made  ready  for  in  a  half-century, 
dominant  during  two-thirds  of  a  century,  and  de- 
clining in  the   remaining  third,  exhibits  two  phases, 

(^55) 


156    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

the  first  under  Tope  and  Addison,  the  second  undei 
Johnson.  The  key-note  of  its  spirit  and  method 
was  most  clearly  given  early  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury by  Pope,  who  was  its  best  embodiment. 

In  the  aesthetical  product  there  are  two  constitu- 
ents, the  substance  and  the  form.  Though  these 
are  much  less  separable  than  the  way  in  which  they 
are  sometimes  spoken  of  would  seem  to  imply,  they 
may,  by  the  manner  in  which  they  are  contemplated 
by  the  mind  in  its  productive  attitudes,  give  quite 
diverse  results.  The  intellectual  substance  of  a 
conception  may  remain  much  the  same,  and  yet  its 
emotional  force  be  materially  modified  by  minor 
variations  of  expression ;  as  the  same  clouds  accept 
a  hundred  shades  of  beauty  according  to  the  light 
that  falls  upon  them.  The  emotional  element  is 
much  more  subtile  and  evanescent  than  the  intel- 
lectual one,  and  comes  and  goes  on  conditions  so 
delicate,  that  we  are  more  cognizant  of  the  results 
than  of  the  means  by  which  they  are  wrought. 

The  form  and  spirit  are  so  mutually  dependent, 
that  they  only  exist  in  and  by  each  other.  There 
can  be  no  modification  of  the  one  member  without 
a  corresponding  change  in  the  other.  But  the 
mind,  in  its  analytic,  creative  act,  can  bend  its  at- 
tention to  the  spiritual  substance  of  its  conception, 
made  up  as  this  is  of  thought  and  feeling;  or  it 
may  direct  its  constructive  vision  to  the  form  which 
the  product  is  to  assume.  In  the  one  attitude,  the 
mind  is  more  thoroughly  creative,  in  the  other, 
more  carefully  critical;  in  the  one,  it  works  more 
from  within,  and  thinks  of  the  form  only  as  the  con- 


THE     SCHOOL     OF     POPE.  .    157 

ception  grows  into  it,  and  necessitates  it ;  in  the 
other,  it  works  more  from  without,  allows  the  ex- 
pression to  react  constantly  on  the  idea,  and  give 
law  to  its  expansion.  In  the  first  instance,  we  se- 
cure a  living  product,  whose  seed  is  in  itself;  in  the 
second,  an  artistic  or  architectural  or  critical  pro- 
duct who^e  plan  has  run  before  it,  and  shaped  it. 

We  speak  in  this  bald  way  of  the  two  methods, 
that  of  Shakespeare  and  that  of  Pope,  though  they 
rarely  or  never  stand  apart  as  complete  and  exclu- 
sive attitudes  of  mind.  Creation  is  not  so  absolute 
as  this  would  imply,  nor  is  criticism  so  formal. 
They  are  rather  as  the  foci  of  an  ellipse,  which  to- 
gether define  the  curve  ;  but  in  one  or  other  of 
which  its  gravitating,  illuminating  centre,  its  sun,  is 
located,  holding  the  planet  to  its  orbit,  defining  its 
periods,  its  degrees  of  light  and  darkness,  heat  and 
cold. 

In  the  school  of  Pope,  it  was  the  critical  func- 
tion that  was  uppermost.  This  did  not  arise  by  ac- 
cident, or  by  the  force  of  circumstances  merely  ;  he 
early  proposed  to  himself  this  precise  kind  of  effort. 
Mr.  Walsh,  "  The  knowing  Walsh,"  as  Pope  styles 
him,  addressed  him  this  counsel  at  the  opening  of 
his  career,  which  met  with  acceptance :  "  We  had 
several  great  poets,"  said  he,  "but  we  never  had 
one  great  poet  that  was  correct ;  and  he  advised  me 
to  make  that  my  study  and  aim."  A  poet  whose 
superiority  over  other  great  poets  is  to  be  found  in 
his  correctness,  this  is  the  project  of  Pope  and  his 
friend.  The  scheme  evidently  promises  more 
formal  than  substantial  merit.    Technical  precision 


158     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

may  be  reached,  but  what  will  become  of  greatness  ? 
There  is  danger  that  those  birds  of  the  free,  upper 
air  will  hardly  consort  with  the  new-comer,  not- 
withstanding the  careful  preening  of  his  every  feath- 
er. The  dash  and  whirl  of  the  thunder-cloud  begel 
some  ruffled  plumage.  The  idea  of  great  poets, 
who  are  not  in  the  main  correct  poets,  either  springs 
from  confusion  of  thought,  or  belittles  correctness 
into  a  studious  observance  of  the  secondary  rules 
of  composition.  To  this  labor,  then,  of  cold,  out- 
side scrutiny,  Pope  and  his  cotemporaries  set  them- 
selves. The  favorite  measure  of  the  time,  a  rhymed, 
decasyllabic,  two-lined  stanza,  was  especially  predis- 
posed to  a  monotonous  neatness  of  movement,  an 
antithetic  structure  of  the  thought,  an  adroit,  quick 
turn  of  the  expression,  which  should  make  them- 
selves sensible  each  instant,  like  waves  that  strike 
the  shore  under  firm  winds,  in  one  unbroken  ca- 
dence. Probably  this  poise  and  thrumming  of  the 
thought,  by  which  it  fell  into  the  cold  pulsations  of 
an  unvarying  rhythm,  have  never  surpassed  the  point 
of  neatness  attained  by  Pope,  and  accomplished  all 
that  art  of  this  mechanical  grade  could  reach. 

The  real  value  of  this  kind  of  excellence  it  is 
not  easy  to  determine  with  precision,  different 
minds  estimate  it  so  differently.  The  cotempora- 
ries of  Pope,  and  a  large  portion  of  those  who  im- 
mediately followed  him,  gave  him  rank  among  the 
first  English  poets.  Critics  of  the  present  cen- 
tury have  fallen  off,  many  of  them  greatly,  from  this 
high  praise ;  though  some  still  speak  of  him  in 
terms    of  the  warmest    eulogy.      Thackeray  says, 


POPE.  159 

"Besides  that  brilliant  genius  and  immense  fame, 
for  both  of  which  we  should  respect  him,  men  of 
letters  should  admire  him  as  being  the  greatest  lit- 
erary artist  that  England  has  seen."  ••'•■  Is  there  not 
either  a  disparagement  of  art  in  this  passage,  or  an 
exaggerated  valuation  of  the  excellencies  of  Pope  ? 
Either  Shakespeare  and  Milton  are  not  artists,  o 
they  are,  according  to  this  judgment,  inferior  in  art 
to  Pope.  If  they  are  not  artists,  what  on  the  whole 
is  art  worth  .-*  or  if  they  are  artists,  is  it  in  the  trivi- 
alities of  a  trade  whose  drift  is  execution,  or  in  the 
sublime  forces  of  creation  that  Pope  surpasses 
them  .-*  If  in  the  first,  what  does  the  implied  praise 
amount  to?  if  in  the  second,  how  does  the  world 
misunderstand  itself  With  a  like  feeling  Thackeray 
speaks  of  the  close  of  the  Dunciad :  "  In  these  as- 
tonishing lines  Pope  reaches,  I  think,  to  the  very 
greatest  height  which  his  sublime  art  has  attained, 
and  shows  himself  the  equal  of  all  poets  of  all  time. 
It  is  the  brightest  ardor,  the  loftiest  assertion  of 
truth,  the  most  generous  wisdom,  illustrated  by  the 
noblest  poetic  figure,  and  spoken  in  words  the  apt- 
est,  grandest  and  most  harmonious."  f  When  we 
read  this  passage,  and  then  turn  to  the  lines  of 
Pope  referred  to,  the  praise  seems  to  us  excessive. 

"  She  comes !  she  comes  1  the  sable  throne  behold 
Of  night  primeval,  and  of  Chaos  old  ! 
Before  her,  Fancy's  gilded  clouds  decay, 
And  all  its  varying  rainbows  die  away. 
Wit  shoots  in  vain  its  momentary  fires, 
The  meteor  drops,  and  in  a  flash  expires. 

*  English  Humorists.  f  Ibid. 


l60     THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

As  one  bv  one.  at  dread  Medea's  strain, 
The  sick'ning  stars  fade  off  th'  etherial  plain ; 
As  Argus'  eyes,  by  Hermes'  wand  oppressed, 
Closed  one  by  one  to  everlasting  rest ; 
Thus,  at  her  fell  approach  and  secret  might, 
Art  after  Art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night. 
See  skulking  Truth  to  her  old  cavern  fled, 
Mountains  of  casuistry  heap'd  o'er  her  head ! 
Philosophy,  that  leaned  on  Heaven  before. 
Shrinks  to  her  second  cause,  and  is  no  more. 
Religion,  blushing,  veils  her  sacred  fires, 
And  unawares.  Morality  expires. 
Nor  public  flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine; 
Nor  human  spark  is  left,  nor  glimpse  divine. 
Lo  !  thy  dread  empire,  Chaos,  is  restored. 
Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word ; 
Thy  hand,  great  Anarch,  lets  the  curtain  fall, 
And  universal  darkness  buries  all." 

The  thought  in  this  passage  barely  sustains  the 
expression.  It  is  not  the  breaking  out  of  senti- 
ments that  hft  and  impel  upward  the  language. 

It  may  help  us  in  a  just  estimate  of  this  period, 
as  compared  with  the  creative  periods  that  went 
before  it  and  followed  it,  to  observe  the  direction 
which  its  critical  temper  gave  it.  Three  leading 
poems  of  Pope  are  the  Essay  on  Man,  a  didactic 
poem;  The  Dunciad,  a  satire;  and  The  Rape  of 
the  Lock,  a  mock-heroic  poem.  Thus  none  of 
them  lie  in  the  most  central  fields  of  a  creative  im- 
agination, but  only  skirt  them.  It  is  merely  the 
slopes  and  lowlands  of  Parnassus  that  are  here  cul- 
tivated, made  to  blossom  with  the  nutritious  lentils 
of  philosophy,  or  sown  to  the  dragon  teeth  of  satire, 
or  purpled  over  with  the  poppy,  yielding  its  mock 
visions,  its  weird  and  sportive  fancies.     The  high, 


POPE.  l6l 

the  holy,  the  real ;  the  epic,  the  dramatic,  the  lyric ; 
achievement,  conflict,  the  song  that  searches  the 
heart  with  its  tender,  echoing  sentiments,  are  all 
forgotten  in  favor  of  a  cold  philosophy,  culling  pre- 
cepts, and  neatly  putting  chance  principles  in  aim- 
less prudential  fashion  ;  in  favor  of  the  bitter  words 
of  genuine  hatred,  and  the  mock  words  of  ironical 
respect. 

We  shall  also  remember  to  advantage,  in 
judging  these  artists,  the  relatively  high  estimate 
they  themselves  made  of  poets  of  quite  secondary 
powers,  of  the  calibre  of  Waller  and  Denham,  in 
contrast  with  Spenser  and  Shakespeare. 

Not  only  was  the  poetry  of  the  time  largely 
didactic,  it  was  outranked,  if  not  absolutely,  yet 
relatively,  by  the  literary  prose  of  the  period. 
The  relative  position  of  prose  in  English  litera- 
ture has  never  been  higher  than  at  this  date. 
This  excellence  may  fairly  be  regarded  as  the  dis- 
tinguishing literary  feature  of  the  age.  Addison 
and  Swift  and  Steele  gave  prose  new  force  and 
beauty,  devoted  it  to  ends  as  sesthetical  at  least 
as  those  which  engaged  poetry,  and  made  it  a 
rival  in  public  attention.  The  satire  of  Swift  was 
more  varied  and  vigorous  than  that  of  Pope,  and 
lost  little  or  nothing  by  its  prose  form.  The  es- 
says of  Addison  were  filled  with  sentiments  more 
gentle  and  delicate,  and  hardly  less  imaginative 
and  complete,  than  the  best  which  belonged  to  the 
poems  of  the  critical  school.  It  is  plain,  then, 
that  this  period  forsook  the  higher  regions  of  art, 
set  poetry  and    prose    to    much    the    same    tasks, 


l62     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

gathered  and  folded  in  one  enclosure  its  flocks 
and  herds  whether  from  the  rocks  above  or  the 
meadows  below,  and  entered  on  a  safe,  serviceable, 
dilettant  husbandry  of  its  resources,  far  more  ad- 
vantageous to  the  reflective  and  critical  than  to 
the  inventive  faculties ;  to  prose,  in  its  patient, 
plodding  functions,  than  to  poetry,  in  its  bold  in- 
sight, free  aspirations,  and  tender,  sympathetic 
responses. 

Poetry  had  already  reached  the  central  prin- 
ciples of  art,  principles  which  lie  a  primitive 
frame-work  of  strength  in  all  products  of  a  truly 
great  and  original  cast.  It  had  thus  compara- 
tively little  to  expect  from  art,  and  lay  open  to  the 
danger  of  a  petty,  superficial  and  exasperating  criti- 
cism, that,  forgetful  of  form  as  the  expression  of  in- 
terior force,  should  refine  upon  it  as  a  distant  ele- 
ment, and,  proud  of  minor  corrections,  set  up  in- 
flexible methods  and  dead  canons  for  the  making 
of  living  things.  Prose,  on  the  other  hand,  an 
object  hitherto  of  much  less  careful  and  refined 
attention,  less  sensitive  in  its  structure,  more 
•homely  and  useful  in  its  purpose,  was  quite  ready 
to  be  profited  by  a  new  infusion  of  art,  to  be 
shaped  as  an  instrument  more  aptly  to  its  ends, 
and  to  accept  at  once  a  more  artistic  form  and 
office.  It  was  rescued  from  the  harsh  and  ex- 
clusive service  of  dialectics  and  dogmatism,  re- 
tained by  the  fancy  and  social  sentiments,  and 
set  to  a  task  of  mingled  pleasure  and  instruction. 
Thus  the  profiting  of  the  period  accrued  to  prose 
rather  than  to  poetry ;  this  for    the  first    time  be- 


CRITICISM    FOLLOWS    INVENTION.  1 63 

came  a  fine  art,  and  in    the    essay,  took    rank  as 
an  aesthetical  product. 

The  causes  which  produced  this  artistic  period 
were  various.  In  the  first  place,  a  natural,  al- 
most inevitable,  literary  movement  involved  it. 
Great  originality  and  inventive  power  cannot  last 
long.  There  is  not  strength  enough  to  sustain 
them,  to  hold  unweariedly  the  gigantic  stride 
they  involve.  Fortune  is  too  sparing  in  her  gifts 
of  genius  to  the  race  for  this.  But  at  the  ad- 
vanced position  reached  by  invention,  when  the 
general  mind  is  yet  lively  and  restless,  an  ocean 
swept  by  a  storm  that  cannot  at  once  sink  into 
repose,  criticism  and  art  take  up  their  tasks  with 
peculiar  advantage.  Unable  to  rival  in  new 
fields  of  effort  the  works  before  them,  poets  and 
writers  are  nevertheless  too  much  lifted  and 
quickened  by  past  successes  to  fall  into  mere 
servile  imitation.  They  become  pupils,  inquire 
into  the  method  and  details  of  previous  products, 
and  conceive  the  idea  of  perfecting  them.  They 
have  before  them  abundant  material,  from  Avhich 
to  derive  the  rules  of  art,  to  which  to  apply  them; 
they  nurse  a  critical  taste,  and  reach  a  pleasant 
sense  of  personal  power,  not  to  say  superiority 
in  laying  down  the  precepts  of  more  careful  and 
considerate  work.  Thus  it  almost  inevitably  hap- 
pens, that  each  great  philosopher  has  his  dis- 
ciples, who  correct  and  expand  his  system ;  each 
painter  of  inventive  power  is  followed  by  a  school 
of  not  unworthy  men,  who  go  forward  to  apply 
the  new    idea,  develop    its    possibilities,   and   lay 


164    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

down  its  rules.  An  age  of  invention,  in  expend- 
ing itself,  naturally  gives  rise  to  one  of  art. 

Such  was  the  sequence  of  the  age  of  Pope 
upon  that  of  Shakespeare,  growing  out  of  it  un- 
der the  transition  period  of  Dryden.  It  could 
scarcely  happen  otherwise  than  that  the  later 
poets,  losing  the  powerful,  free  impulse  of  the 
earlier  ones,  should  strive  to  replace  it  by 
greater  painstaking,  should  set  themselves  the 
feasible  labor  of  refining  upon  their  method. 

The  same  influences,  moreover,  which  had 
wrought  for  art  in  the  transition  period,  still  re- 
mained operative.  The  commanding  age  in  French 
literature,  that  of  Louis  XIV.,  was  still  in  force; 
and  though  political  events  less  favored  than  in 
previous  years  the  transfer  of  the  French  spirit, 
the  French  literature  itself  was  more  controlling 
than  ever.  Pope's  Essay  on  Criticism  unites  itself 
to  the  precepts  of  Boileau  and  of  Horace,  and  shows 
whence  the  current  of  his  ideas  descended  to  him. 
The  classical  influence  was  yet  more  independently 
powerful  at  this  time  than  the  French.  The  renais- 
sance spirit  was  uppermost  in  France  and  in  Eng- 
land, and  as  has  been  usual  with  it  in  art,  begot 
imitation  and  servitude  rather  than  power.  Arnold 
says  of  Pope,  "The  classical  poets  soon  became  his 
chief  study  and  delight,  and  he  valued  the  moderns 
in  proportion  as  they  had  drunk  more  or  less  deeply 
of  the  classical  spirit.  The  genius  of  the  Gothic  or 
Romantic  ages  inspired  him  at  this  time  with  no 
admiration  whatever.  He  can  find  no  bright  spot 
in  the  thick  intellectual  darkness  from  the  downfall 


CLASSICAL    INFLUENCE.  165 

•sf  the  Western  Empire  to  the  age  of  Leo  X."  ** 
Mow  impossible  is  it  even  for  that  which  is  best  to 
confer  unmingled  good  !  How  much  barren,  un- 
fruitful admiration  has  Greek  art,  poetry,  sculpture 
and  architecture,  begotten  ;  drawing  the  thoughts 
of  men  backward,  and  binding  them  to  that  already 
done,  rather  than  inspiring  them  for  new  achieve- 
ment !  The  German  must  build  his  national  Wal- 
halla  as  a  Greek  temple,  and  adorn  the  palaces  of 
his  princes  with  Grecian  stories,  and  that  too  when 
descended  from  an  ancestry  who  could  help  to 
strike  out  and  carry  forward  the  bolder  and  more 
inspired  styles  of  Gothic  architecture.  The  classi- 
cal spirit,  revived  in  remote  races  and  times,  devotes 
those  who  implicitly  receive  it  to  comparative  ster- 
ility. They  can  scarcely  restore  the  past,  certainly 
not  enlarge  it ;  and  in  the  effort  to  do  this,  they 
waste  the  present  and  lose  the  future.  The  Greek 
is  what  he  is  to  us  because  he  was  intensely  true  to 
himself,  nursed  and  honored  his  own  life.  On  these 
conditions  only  shall  we  command  the  generations 
that  are  to  follow.  They  will  hold  lightly  the 
shadowy  outlines  of  an  older  life  that  we  may  be 
found  painfully  yet  faintly  renewing. 

Taine  says,  "The  arts  require  idle,  delicate 
minds,  not  stoics,  especially  not  Puritans,  easily 
shocked  by  dissonance,  inclined  to  sensuous  pleas- 
ure, employing  their  long  periods  of  leisure,  their 
free  reveries,  in  harmoniously  arranging,  and  with 
no  other  object   but  enjoyment,  forms,  colors  and 

*  ArnoM's  English  Literature,  245. 


1 60     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    EMGLISH   JLITERATUKE. 

sounds.""''  This  is  the  Frenchman's  view  of  ail, 
and  the  one  that  partially  prevailed  in  England 
at  this  period,  prevailed  so  far  as  such  sen- 
timents could  find  transfer  to  the  more  earnest, 
practical,  English  mind.  What  it  achieved  we 
see,  the  results  hardly  commend  the  theory. 
When  the  artist  has  no  other  object  than  en- 
joyment in  view,  we  believe  that  he  will  find 
great  difficulty  in  realizing  even  this.  High  pleas- 
ure, like  real  excellence,  is  born  of  a  more  sturdy, 
and  powerfully  directed  spirit.  Witness  the  severe 
temperament  and  indomitable  ideas  that  ruled 
Michael  Angelo.  It  is  the  execution  of  cherished 
purposes,  obedience  to  ideas,  that  confers  pleasure, 
not  pleasure  that  enthrones  ideas.  High  enjoyment 
is  ever  incident  to  high  action. 

Another  influence,  aiding  this  tendency  to  art, 
were  the  science  and  the  philosophy  of  this  and  the 
previous  period.  When  natural  science  is  pre-emi- 
nent over  philosophy,  when  philosophy  leans  to 
materialism,  to  an  interpretation  of  the  laws  of 
mind  by  those  of  matter,  to  a  reference  of  knowl- 
edge exclusively  to  the  perceptive  and  analytic  fac- 
ulties, we  are  sure  to  have  a  cool  and  critical,  rather 
than  a  warm  and  creative,  social  atmosphere ;  one 
of  skepticism  and  overthrow,  rather  than  of  belief 
and  spiritual  construction.  Science  plays  a  most 
inevitable  and  essential  part  in  progress ;  but  it 
does  not,  especially  in  its  earlier  stages,  when  it  is 
coming  in  contact  with  many  inadequate  beliefs,  and 
overthrowing  them,  give  inspiration  to  the  higher, 

*  English  Literature,  vol.  i.  p.  332. 


SCIENCE,    ITS    INFLUENCE.  1 67 

intuitive,  trusting,  ethical  impulses  of  the  soul.  It 
tends  to  a  wavering,  uncertain  and  superficial  senti- 
ment on  all  questions  that  pertain  to  man  and  his 
destiny,  a  sentiment  like  that  which  pervades  the 
Essay  on  Man,  one  of  whose  fundamental  conclu- 
sions Pope  is  said  to  have  exactly  reversed  under 
a  transient  wind  of  criticism.  The  philosophy  of 
Locke,  the  science  of  Newton,  the  skepticism  of  Bo- 
lingbroke,  were  affiliated  forces,  largely  good  in 
themselves,  with  an  immeasurable  overbalance  of 
good  in  their  results ;  yet  begetting  an  adventurous, 
uncertain,  unbelieving  temper,  disinclined  to  pledge 
itself  unreservedly  to  any  spiritual  faith,  to  any 
principle  or  precept  of  religious  belief;  and  hence 
ready  for  a  cool  rendering  of  the  heart,  an  outlook 
of  immediate  pleasure  and  comfort  on  society  and 
art.  There  cannot  be  devotion,  heroism,  sacrifice 
in  the  primarily  skeptical  spirit ;  and  hence  there 
cannot  be  profound  sympathy  with  that  art  in  which 
the  human  soul  is  tossed  by  deep,  unquiet  emotions, 
refusing  to  be  lulled  into  the  rest  of  the  passing 
hour,  but  seeming  to  feel  far  off  forces  at  work  be- 
low the  horizon,  the  promises  of  invisible  good,  the 
presages  of  invisible  evil.  The  things  astir  in  the 
unseen  world  affect  such  a  mind,  and  will  not  leave 
it  solely  attentive  to  the  lazy,  measured  rhythm  of 
a  summer's  day.  It  floats  on  a  sea  alive  with  the 
long  swell  of  distant  tempests.  Science  had  begun 
its  work  of  demolition ;  philosophy  aftrighted,  was 
forsaking  its  own  principles,  and  seeking  grounds 
of  alliance  with  the  new  tendencies;  religion  with 
too  little  power  to  modify  its  belief,  to  take  new  po- 


l68     THE    PniLOSOPH\    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

sitions,  to  reform  and  restate  and  redefend  its  prin- 
ciples, was  losing  hold  on  the  minds  of  many,  and, 
like  a  wall  that  is  shaken,  began  to  show  unexpected 
traces  of  weakness  and  insecurity.  It  was  ceasing 
to  rule  by  authority,  and  had  not  yet  learned  to 
rule  by  reason.  There  was  thus  a  loss  in  enthu- 
siasm. Men  were  seized  with  worldly  prudence, 
were  not  ready  for  the  long  ventures  of  the  spiritual 
world,  its  patient  waiting,  and  impalpable  promises ; 
they  cast  about  them  for  a  more  immediate  good,  a 
more  hasty  and  formal  pleasure.  This  is  the  ten- 
dency which  art,  that  has  become  artistic,  exacting 
and  sensitive,  is  ready  to  accept,  finding  its  office 
in  contributing  a  gloss  of  superficial  excellence,  an 
elegance  open  to  the  senses,  which,  if  it  holds  no 
weighty  claims  against  the  future,  redeems  the 
present  to  good  cheer  and  elegant  culture.  The 
lake  ripples  and  sparkles  in  the  sunshine,  and  we 
stop  not  to  ask  what  skeletons  of  death  are  hidden 
under  its  waters.  These  were  the  days  of  unbelief 
and  feeble  belief  that  were  later  to  call  forth  the 
reasonings  of  Butler,  and  the  zeal  of  the  Wesleys. 
The  political  and  social  spirit  which  belonged 
to  the  reigns  of  William  and  Anne,  was  more  vigor- 
ous and  healthy  than  that  of  the  previous  period. 
The  close,  sultry,  feverish  air  that  attended  on  the 
Stuarts,  surrounding  them,  like  the  pent-up  breath 
of  a  night  revel,  to  which  the  morning  freshness  of 
a  new  day  has  not  yet  found  entrance,  had  begun 
to  clear  away.  In  the  struggle  of  liberty,  the  cir- 
cuit of  aggression,  resistance,  reaction  and  com- 
promise had  been  completed.     The  commonwealth 


POLITICAL    EVENTS.  1 69 

had  been  followed  by  the  restoration;  this  hi  turn 
intolerable  had  been  succeeded  by  the  revolution, 
and  William  came  to  the  throne  the  representative 
of  progressive  and  revolutionary,  yet  constitutional 
and  monarchical,  liberty.  Thus  was  closed  in  mu- 
tual concession  and  the  permanent  gains  of  good 
government  the  most  violent  series  of  events  that 
has  fallen  to  the  peaceful  progress  of  England. 
The  political  parties  of  this  reign  ceased  to  be  fac- 
tions, and  struggled  with  each  other  for  the  guid- 
ance of  a  government  which  neither  proposed  to 
modify  or  resist.  The  Tories  by  affiliation  and  de- 
scent had  taken  the  place  of  the  royalist.  Their 
central  idea  was  authority  ;  for  them  the  chief  vir- 
tue of  a  subject  was  submission.  This  party  was 
principally  composed  of  intelligent  and  designing 
leaders,  of  ignorant  and  prejudiced  followers.  No 
party,  as  our  own  national  experience  abundantly 
shows  us,  responds  with  so  firm  and  patient  a  front 
to  the  rallying  cry,  as  one  in  which  the  cunning  of 
the  few  is  mated  with  the  credulity  of  the  many. 
It  is  this  inevitable  union  of  intrigue  and  ignorance 
that  sustains  selfish  and  unscrupulous  power.  Well 
might  such  a  party  urge  passive  submission ;  the 
high  in  state  and  church  profited  by  it,  the  low 
knew  no  other  loyalty  or  religion.  The  leaders 
gladly  held  what  they  had  ;  the  followers  easily  re- 
signed what  they  never  hoped  to  have.  Words  are 
better  rallying  forces  than  ideas  for  the  masses  of 
men  ;  they  involve  for  their  partisans  no  discus- 
sions, and  hence  no  divisions ;  they  exact  from 
chiefs  no  concessions,  and  hence  look  to  no  sacri- 
8 


I/O    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

fices.  All  that  was  hereditary,  stubborn,  uncon- 
cessive  and  selfish  in  English  society  settled  by  its 
own  weight  and  downward  bent  into  the  Tory 
party.  All,  on  the  other  hand,  that  was  liberal, 
active  and  progressive,  yet  sufficiently  moderate  to 
hope  for  power,  belonged  to  the  Whigs,  the  politi- 
cal descendants  of  the  Round-heads.  Parties  bid- 
ding for  power,  eager-eyed  for  the  possibilities  of 
success,  are  always  more  or  less  corrupt,  warped 
from  their  true  tendencies.  Individual  ambition 
will  strive  to  lay  hold  of  and  use  the  party  organiza- 
tion for  its  own  private  ends.  Submission  will  be 
enforced  by  urging  the  necessities  of  the  party,  and 
thus  its  unity  and  zeal  will  throw  it  only  the  more 
completely  into  the  hands  of  the  unscrupulous.  The 
right  to  think  is  the  right  to  bolt.  Aside,  however, 
from  personal  distractions,  the  central  sympathy,  the 
prevailing  purpose  of  the  Whigs,  was  constitutional 
liberty.  They  included  the  liberal,  independent, 
thoughtful  minds  of  the  nation,  the  midway  men, 
who  have  much  to  gain  and  much  to  lose,  who  love 
their  own  thoughts,  and  covet  the  power  to  form 
and  execute  their  own  plans.  These  two  parties, 
Tory  and  Whig,  representing  the  old  extremes, 
had  drawn  so  near  together  as  to  lay  aside  the 
sword,  and  enter  on  a  perpetual  parley  of  words 
and  measures,  a  competition  for  the  control  of  a 
sovereignty  both  were  prepared  to  respect. 

A  corresponding  improvement  was  taking  place 
in  public  manners  and  morals.  The  literature  of 
the  period  more  than  concurred  with  this;  it 
advanced  it  in  a  positive  way.     The  papers  which 


THE  PAPERS  OF  STEELE.  I/l 

originated  with  Steele,  and  included  the  best  efforts 
of  Addison,  were  a  social  evangel.  The  corrupt  dra- 
matists of  the  previous  reign,  who  owed  so  much  of 
their  taint  to  the  court  whose  patronage  they 
sought,  had  passed  away.  William,  with  little  lit- 
erary sympathy,  did  not  merely  bring  with  him  a 
sounder,  more  wholesome  life,  one  of  more  earnest 
and  serviceable  purposes,  he  was  inclined  to  leave 
letters  to  a  more  independent  and  thus  to  a  more 
healthy  development.  The  neglect  of  courts  is 
often  better  than  their  favor.  The  liberty  and  dis- 
interestedness of  art  are  both  essential  to  its  high- 
est excellence.  The  moment  it  becomes  a  retainer, 
and  is  compelled  to  make  itself  agreeable,  it  loses 
the  inspiration  of  freedom,  the  guidance  of  its  own 
creative  insight.  Patronage  is  to  art  a  qualified 
good. 

These  papers,  which  now  came  forward  to  take 
the  place  in  literary  influence  of  the  drama,  and 
which  present  the  prose  of  English  literature  in  its 
very  best  dress,  sprang  from  a  broad,  generous,  and 
skilfully  conceived  purpose.  They  aimed  at  what 
they  did  much  to  accomplish,  a  social  regeneration. 
They  depended  on  the  general  patronage,  taken  in 
its  most  fluctuating  form,  and  thus  rested  on  their 
own  merit.  They  were  able  to  soften  public  senti- 
ment, to  correct  taste,  improve  manners,  and  bear 
with  them  a  genial  ethical  spirit,  only  as  they  could 
instruct  and  delight  their  readers,  and  increase  theii 
numbers.  They  were  admirably  fitted  to  this  pur- 
pose. .  Short,  returning  at  brief  intervals,  with  no 
close  connection  and  with  great  variety  of  contents, 


1/2     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

they  could  hardly  fail  to  awaken  attention,  and  keep 
alive  curiosity.  They  were  exactly  fitted  to  the 
times.  They  were  a  fresh  and  palatable  invention, 
and  came  to  the  club  and  the  coffee-house  with 
pleasing  topics,  offering  a  creditable  variety  of  fare. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  ingenuity  with  which 
these  papers  were  devised,  and  the  skill  with  which 
they  were  written.  We  may  also  add,  that  this 
effort  was  animated  by  a  correspondingly  high  pur- 
pose. Says  Addison,  in  the  sixth  number  of  the 
Spectator,  "  It  is  a  mighty  shame  and  dishonor  to 
employ  excellent  faculties  and  abundance  of  wit 
to  humor  and  please  men  in  their  vices  and  follies." 
Again  in  the  tenth  number  he  says : — "  I  shall  en- 
deavor to  enliven  morality  with  wit,  and  to  temper 
wit  with  morality,  that  my  readers  may,  if  possible, 
both  ways  find  their  account  in  the  speculation  of 
the  day.  And  to  the  end  that  their  virtue  and  dis- 
cretion may  not  be  short,  transient,  intermitting 
starts  of  thought,  I  have  resolved  to  refresh  their 
memories  from  day  to  day,  till  I  have  recovered 
them  out  of  that  desperate  state  of  vice  and 
folly,  into  which  the  age  has  fallen.  The  mind 
that  lies  fallow  but  a  single  day  sprouts  up  in  fol- 
lies that  are  only  to  be  killed  by  a  constant  and 
assiduous  culture.  It  was  said  by  Socrates,  that  he 
brought  philosophy  down  from  Heaven  to  inhabit 
among  men  ;  and  I  shall  be  ambitious  to  have  it 
said  of  me,  that  I  have  brought  philosophy  out  of 
closets  and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell 
in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea-tables  and  in  coffee- 
houses." 


IHE  PAPERS  OF  STEELE.  173 

This  purpose,  thus  distinctly  announced,  was 
carried  forward  with  great  fertility  of  resources, 
variety  of  methods,  and  vivacity  and  ease  of  style. 
Pure,  idiomatic,  simple  English  afforded  fresh, 
flexible  expression ;  while  satire,  allegory,  imper- 
sonation, the  changing  characters  of  a  club,  letters, 
and  many  a  nameless  conceit  besides,  served  to 
diversify  and  support  the  critical  function.  The 
inventions  of  Addison  were  exhaustless,  and  a 
benignant  temper  and  graceful  fancy  adorned 
them  all.  These  papers  were  very  successful  in 
their  own  time,  and  have  since  remained  classics  in 
our  literature.  They  owe  their  success,  first,  to  the 
nobility  of  their  purpose,  and  afterward  to  their 
humor,  variety,  good  sense,  moderation,  and  ele- 
gance. Each  of  these  qualities  they  possess  in  a 
high  degree.  The  mirth  of  these  pieces  is  mild, 
pervasive  humor,  imparting  a  pleasant  glow  of 
thought,  and  wooing  the  reader  along  a  sunny, 
cheerful  path.  Satire  is  constantly  directed  against 
every  form  of  social  offence,  but  it  is  that  genial 
satire  which  awakens  attention  to  a  fault  rather 
than  censures  it,  and  enables  us  to  look  with  the 
discrimination  of  a  stranger  at  our  own  actions. 

Of  the  second  quality,  Addison  himself  says, 
"  There  is  nothing  which  I  study  so  much,  in  the 
course  of  these  my  daily  dissertations,  as  variety." 
Yet  the  arc  which  he  and  his  friend  Steele  trav- 
ersed was  not  the  entire  circle  of  human  passion. 
It  usually  excluded  profound  emotion,  whether  of 
awe,  pathos,  terror,  anger  or  indignation.  Strong 
feeling,   rising    like   a    hurricane    to    sweep    away 


174    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITLRATURE. 

opposition,  was  consonant  neither  with  their  tem- 
per nor  purpose.  They  looked  for  reform,  but  a 
reform  that  should  be  initiated  in  pleasure,  and 
flow  on  of  its  own  sweet  will  in  the  channels  of 
enjoyment  opening  before  it.  Hence  they  swept 
round  from  satire  to  reflection,  and  reflection  back 
to  satire,  through  a  luminous  curve  of  whimsi- 
cality, caricature,  story,  portrait,  description,  alle- 
gory, criticism  and  speculation. 

The  cardinal  quality  of  these  papers  is  their 
good  sense  ;  this  never  forsakes  them.  Their 
philosophy  presents  it  in  a  penetrative,  their 
humor  in  a  pungent,  form.  Their  criticisms  on 
society  are  as  just  as  they  are  amiable.  Their 
analysis  is  correct  and  practical,  their  moral  re- 
flections, impressive  and  natural.  This  good  sense 
was  most  effective  in  securing  uniform  success. 
It  gave  a  restraint  and  proportion  to  what  was 
said  that  made  it  difficult  to  be  resisted,  and  im- 
possible to  be  controverted.  Whatever  the  object 
of  satire,  the  pedantry  of  learning,  the  conceit  of 
rank,  the  foppishness  of  dress,  the  frivolity  of  eti- 
quette, the  prejudice  of  partisanship,  the  same 
sober,  sound  opinion  underlay  and  sustained  the 
attack. 

Moderation  was  even  more  worthy  of  commenda- 
tion then  than  now.  The  art  of  achieving  a  true 
success  is  found  very  much  in  tempering  zeal  to  a 
just  moderation.  Steel  that  is  too  hard  is  fractured 
at  every  blow ;  draw  the  temper  too  much  and  it 
becomes  iron.  The  Damascus  blade,  with  its 
tough  and  steady  edge  clings  to  that  nice  line  that 


ADDISON.  175 

divides  excess  and  deficiency.  From  this  middle 
region,  Steele  seems  to  have  been  inclined  to  range 
upward,  and  Addison  downward.  He  complains  of 
Addison,  that  "he  blew  a  lute  when  he  should  sound 
a  trumpet ; "  yet  the  lute  notes  of  the  one  went 
farther  than  the  trumpet  tones  of  the  other. 

The  crowning  quality  of  these  papers,  as  work- 
of  literature,  is  their  elegance.  This  made  of  prose 
a  fine  art,  and  ranked  its  best  productions,  with 
those  of  poetry,  among  the  permanent  products  of 
taste.  This  excellence  was  fully  achieved,  for  the  first 
time  in  our  literature,  by  Addison  ;  and  since  his  day 
elegant  culture  has  found  constant  expression  in 
prose.  The  art  of  Addison  is  far  less  cold  and 
critical  than  that  of  Pope.  It  preserves  its  free- 
dom, and  moves  with  a  simplicity  and  ease,  that 
are  open  indeed  to  error,  but  are  also  able  to  make 
that  error  seem  slight  and  unimportant.  There  is 
in  his  style  no  opposition  between  nature  and  art ; 
the  substance  and  form  remain  inseparable,  the 
thought  lifting  itself  into  light  and  being  at  once, 
rising  in  a  single  creative  act  out  of  the  chaos  of 
material. 

The  force  of  the  moral  element  is  freely  dis- 
closed in  these  works  of  Addison.  Many  graces 
and  much  good-will  come  to  his  aid,  as  he  marks 
out  a  pure  and  reformatory  path,  and  accepts  the 
bias  and  freedom  and  boldness  of  his  best  impulses 
in  pursuing  it.  Prose  touched  the  meridian  of  art 
at  the  same  instant  that  it  culminated  in  a  catho- 
lic, wholesome  and  sincere  spirit.  There  was  in- 
deed much  in  the  temperate,  mild  form  of  the  ethi- 


iy6    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

cal  impulse  to  favor  this  sensitive  and  considerate 
art.  More  force  would  have  been  less  appreci- 
ative, less  careful ;  would  have  rushed  in  a  heed- 
less, headstrong  way  to  its  goal.  It  also  favored 
prose  as  against  poetry,  and  a  poetry  of  art,  as 
against  one  of  creation.  Inspiration  is  the  life  of 
poetry,  emotion  its  very  substance ;  and  these  are 
easily  lost  under  those  quiet,  aesthetic  tendencies 
which  ripen  prose.  Poetry  is  likely  to  predomi- 
nate in  a  vigorous  age,  and  to  master  those  strong 
spirits,  whose  tension  of  soul  is  sufficient  for  its 
service. 

The  supremacy  which  fell  to  a  single  person  in 
the  previous  period  was  in  this  divided.  During 
the  reign  of  Charles,  a  reckless  and  corrupt  temper 
controlled  literature.  This  spirit  Dryden  accepted, 
and  consolidated  his  authority  under  it.  In  the 
reign  of  Anne,  different  opinions  found  recognition 
in  popular  productions,  and  the  influence  of  the 
leaders  of  literature  was  affected  by  their  political 
sentiments.  Pope  and  Swift  were  Tories,  Addison 
and  Steele  Whigs,  and  this  fact  was  one  ground 
of  divided  authority.  The  temper  of  the  two  typi- 
cal literary  leaders,  Pope  and  Addison,  was  a  farther 
occasion  of  separation.  Pope,  sensitive,  exacting 
and  irritable,  was  early  displeased  with  Addison, 
misinterpreted  the  counsel  he  gave  him,  and  found 
in  him  too  mild,  or,  as  it  seemed  to  Pope,  too  cold, 
a  temper  for  his  own  moods  of  bitterness.  Addi- 
son could  not  unite  with  Pope  in  his  harsh,  person- 
al asperities.  The  irritation  of  Pope  passed  intc 
aversion,    and   the    two    maintained    as    unfriend!} 


LEADERSHIP.  1/7 

a   relation    as   the   gentleness    of  Addison    would 
admit. 

The  natural  powers  of  neither  of  these  leaders 
fitted  them  for  the  undivided  control  which  fell  to 
Dryden.  Pope  was  too  feeble  in  body,  and  too  ir- 
ritable in  disposition,  to  venture  on  the  late  hours, 
exposure  and  hard-won  supremacy  of  the  club  and 
coffee-house.  Addison  was  too  diffident  and  taci- 
turn, too  select  and  retiring  in  his  tastes,  to  seek  or 
to  enjoy  the  public  and  familiar  intercourse  of  a 
literary  coterie,  or  at  least  to  make  it  a  means  of 
self-assertion  and  uncontroverted  authority.  Hence 
there  arose  a  quiet  partition  of  power  in  the  domain 
of  letters.  Addison,  in  the  line  of  regal  de- 
scent, held  sway  at  Button's,  opposite  Will's.  He 
gathered  to  himself  Budgell,  Tickell,  Phillips,  Steele. 
Pope,  unable  to  endure  the  physical  strain  which 
the  rollicksome  clubs  of  the  coffee-house  put  upon 
their  members,  and  with  a  secret  disrelish  of  de- 
pendence, retired  to  Twickenham,  and  there,  in 
his  own  villa,  maintained  a  more  moderate  and 
splendid  court.  Swift  was  strongly  attached  tc 
him.  Garth,  Arbuthnot,  Bolingbroke,  Gay,  Prioi 
belonged  to  his  circle  of  friends. 

These  four  men,  Swift  and  Pope,  Steele  and 
Addison,  gave  by  their  individual  characteristics 
the  controlling  personal  elements  to  the  age,  and 
constituted  two  groups  of  rival  power,  but  unlike 
temper.  Indeed  the  secondary  vigor  and  artistic 
force  of  the  time  are  seen  in  the  absence  of  any 
overshadowing  personal  power.  The  composite 
tendency  had  the  upper  hand  of  separate  life. 
8* 


178      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Swift  possessed  a  sharp,  most  incisive  mind, 
which  he  was  wont  to  use  as  the  cruel  weapon  of 
morbid,  exacting,  unhesitating  passions.  He  was 
powerful  to  do  mischief  and  had  the  practical  pre- 
dilection for  it  of  a  street  brawler.  He  was  himself 
incapable  of  happiness,  and  could  not  but  worry 
and  wound  those  whom  he  approached,  and  those 
the  most  who  were  the  most  attached  to  him.  His 
insanity  and  idiocy  were  the  physical  and  spiritual 
fruits  of  a  morbid  temper,  and  were,  as  germinant 
seeds,  long  and  deeply  hidden  in  his  constitution. 
The  contempt,  almost  hatred,  of  men,  shown  in  his 
satires,  evinces  a  mind  at  war  with  itself,  ceasing 
to  delight  in  its  own  activities,  chafing  at  its  pur- 
suits, and  clashing  in  a  mad  way  with  its  own  good 
an-d  the  good  of  others.  The  most  undeniable  tal- 
ent and  wayward  temper  united  to  make  him  for- 
midable, one  who  was  sure  to  inflict  injury,  though 
the  portion  which  fell  to  his  enemies  was  hardly 
greater  than  that  which  he  brought  to  himself  and 
his  friends.  He  won  love  to  outrage  and  waste  it; 
he  gained  power  to  plant  fierce,  bruising  blows  in 
'the  teeth  and  eyes  of  men,  leaving  to  accident  and 
prejudice  to  decide  who  should  be  his  adversaries. 
Yet,  viewed  from  within,  his  character  at  times  as- 
sumed quite  another  appearance,  and  was  lighted 
up  by  generous  and  sincere  emotion.  We  are  led 
to  feel  that  he  himself  was  overborne  by  those 
biting  passions  which  made  him,  in  so  much  of 
his  outward  activity,  the  fierce  assailant,  the  bitter 
ind  cruel  satirist. 

Pope  was  a  man  of  great  and  obedient  talent— 


POPE.  179 

some  would  say  of  genius.  He  brought  ample  re- 
sources to  the  tasks  he  set  himself,  but  there  was 
less  inspiration  in  them,  either  of  belief  or  of  feel- 
ing, than  in  those  of  any  other  great  poet.  The 
invocation  with  which  his  Essay  on  Man  draws  to 
an  end,  well  expresses  his  temper  and  his  triumphs 

"Come  then,  my  friend,  my  genius,  come  along; 
Oh  master  of  the  poet  and  the  song ! 
And  while  the  muse  now  stoops,  or  now  ascends. 
To  man's  low  passions,  or  their  glorious  ends, 
Teach  me,  like  thee,  in  various  nature  wise. 
To  fall  with  dignity,  with  temper  rise; 
P'ormed  by  thy  converse,  happily  to  steer, 
From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe ; 
Correct  with  spirit,  eloquent  with  ease. 
Intent  to  reason,  or  polite  to  please." 

Here  is  the  diplomatist  of  letters,  who  coolly 
studies  his  times,  the  temper  of  men's  minds,  and 
adroitly  guides  his  steps  among  them.  He  drives 
his  Pegasus  in  embossed  harness,  in  tricksy  fashion. 
Pope  added  to  an  irritable  self-consciousness  some- 
thing of  the  biting  passion  of  Swift.  They  were 
confederate  and  rival  masters  of  satire. 

The  second  fraternity,  that  of  Steele  and  Addi- 
son, was  most  gentle  and  humane.  Steele  exem- 
plified the  strong,  heedless,  generous  impulses  of 
his  Irish  nationality.  He  would  have  been  consist- 
ently good,  had  he  not  so  relished  the  pleasures 
which  lie  on  the  border-ground  of  evil.  These  he 
gathered,  tearfully  cast  away,  and  recklessly  gath- 
ered again  ;  his  sins  each  time  giving  a  new  pur- 
chase and  provocation  to  his  virtues.  While  we 
owe   much  to  him,  and  feel   a  sympathy  with  him, 


l80      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

paled  in  the  light  of  his  powers  by  the  over-shadow- 
ing presence  of  Addison,  we  yet  accept  as  our 
chief  debt  his  indirect  service  in  calling  Addison 
to  the  support  and  development  of  the  first  serials, 
the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator. 

Addison's  tact,  skill  and  resources  were  those 
of  genius.  A  spontaneous  fecundity  and  power  of 
adaptation  had  fallen  to  him,  and  Steele  stepped  in 
at  the  critical  moment  to  determine  the  form  of  the 
result.  Addison  led  a  prosperous  and  pleasant  life, 
and,  with  a  kind  and  generous  nature,  scattered 
freely  its  blessings.  His  chief  fault  was  social ;  he 
sometimes  smothered  the  fires  of  intellect  in  the  va- 
porings  of  intoxication,  an  inverted  torch  quenched 
in  its  own  oil.  Addison  occupies  in  English  litera- 
ture a  place  only  second  to  that  of  its  great  mas- 
ters. We  admire  the  balance,  goodness  and  fruit- 
fulness  of  his  faculties,  yet  can  hold  intercourse 
with  him  without  the  separation  and  awe  of  sur- 
passing greatness.  A  polished  shaft  in  the  temple 
of  letters,  we  are  more  struck  with  the  beauty  of 
workmanship  than  with  the  weight  supported.  Our 
tribute  to  him  is  one  of  good-will  even  more  than 
of  admiration,  though  admiration  is  never  wanting. 
It  is  not  often  that  so  large  a  social  obligation  adds 
itself  to  a  literary  one ;  we  put  as  the  supreme 
point  in  the  man  the  purity  of  his  spirit,  the  gener- 
osity of  his  temper,  and  rejoice  that  his  excellent 
work  stands  fast  by  the  altar  of  worship.  There 
are  two  deeply  shaded  walks,  the  one  at  Oxford, 
the  other  at  Dublin,  associated  with  the  name  of 
Addison.    They  well  express  the  gentle,  meditative. 


ADDISON.  l8l 

benignant  temper  of  the  man,  drawing  inspiration 
from  the  quietness  of  nature,  and  giving  it  in  the 
quietness  of  his  own  soul.  The  points  of  loving 
contact  between  man  and  the  external  world  help 
to  define  the  qu^^lily  of  tliat  secret  life  which  the 
mind  cherishes.  They  disclose  its  most  free  and 
tender  affinities,  and  that  on  which  it  is  fed  day 
by  day. 


I.FCTUKE   VTTI. 

Relations  of  Periods. — Contrast  between  tlie  First  and  Second 
Phase  of  the  Critical  Period,  (tr)  In  Prose  Conipusition,  (/')  In 
Style. — Johnson's  Style. — Pre-eminence  of  Prose. — Theology. — 
Metaphysics. —  Political  Science. —  History. —  Oratory. —  Rhet- 
oric.— The  Novel. — Authority  of  Johnson. — Grounds  of. — Char- 
acter of  his  Criticism. 

We  are  now  to  speak  of  the  second  phase  of  the 
artistic  period,  falling  to  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  Again  we  see  that  periods,  as  in- 
dicating the  prevalence  of  particular  influences, 
have  no  definite  bounds.  There  is  very  little  in 
intellectual  forces,  either  in  their  origin  or  their 
end,  which  is  instantaneous  or  abrupt.  They  over- 
lie each  other,  interpenetrate  each  other,  and  grad- 
ually grow  out  of  each  other,  under  the  slow  victory 
of  new  tendencies,  under  the  slow  expenditure  of 
old  ones.  Associated  conditions  secure  a  gangli- 
onic centre,  and  increase  and  diminish  in  power  as 
we  approach  or  recede  from  it ,  while  the  forces 
that  are  to  rule  a  subsequent  age  are  already 
springing  up  among  them.  The  art  which  in  Eng- 
lish literature  had  culminated  in  Pope  and  Addison 
did  not  pass  away  quickly.  It  was  a  vigorous  and 
deep-rooted  tendency,  and  did  not  easily  yield  pos- 
session of  the  national  soil.  It  assumed  a  second 
form  before  it  began  to  give  ground  to  the  forces 
that  supplanted  it.  There  was  far  too  much  strength, 

(1S2) 


SECOND    PHASE    OF    THE    CRITICAL  PERIOD.       1 83 

too  much  freshness  and  individuality  of  thought,  too 
httle  extravagance  and  affectation  of  method,  too 
much  common  sense  and  English  sympathy,  in  the 
writers  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  to  allow  them 
to  be  easily  pushed  aside.  For  one  full  generation 
after  them,  the  literary  momentum  of  their  works 
was  unabated;  and  only  slowly,  as  the  last  century 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  present  century  was 
opening,  did  vigorous  reactionary  tendencies  dis- 
close themselves. 

Yet  the  second  phase  of  this  period,  that  which 
is  marked  by  the  autocracy  of  Johnson,  differed  in 
some  decided  features  from  the  first,  under  the 
divided  rule  of  Pope  and  Addison.  In  the  early 
portion,  poetry  and  prose  stood  in  fair  equipoise. 
The  influence  of  Pope  was  not  secondary  to  that  of 
Addison.  If  he  is  not  to  be  ranked  with  the  great 
creative  minds  of  our  literature,  yet  this  was  not 
the  feeling  of  his  cotemporaries  concerning  him. 
There  were  no  honors  which  they  of  his  own  time, 
or  the  times  immediately  subsequent,  were  disposed 
to  withhold  from  him.  That  he  has  fallen  to  a 
lower  position  is  due  to  the  verdict  of  later  judges. 
The  artist  who  rules  by  art,  who,  in  the  inciiiient 
conflict  that  is  always  springing  up  between  creation 
and  art,  sides  with  the  latter,  almost  always  leads 
his  generation.  Art,  passing  from  its  unconscious 
and  creative  to  its  conscious  and  preceptive  stage, 
in  its  clear,  critical,  formal  procedure,  flatters  our 
vanity  of  knowledge,  and  meets  with  easy  and  quiet 
admiration.  It  is  only  when  it  strikes  upward  or 
outward  in  growth  farther  than  we  can  follow  it, 


184      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

that  it  is  compelled  to  wait  for  a  first,  second,  or 
third  generation  to  reach  its  level,  and  enter  into  its 
spirit.  Art  that  is  merely  garnering  the  past  is 
popular ;  it  is  only  when  it  attempts  to  break  new 
ground  for  the  future,  that  it  encounters  the  barriers 
of  prejudice. 

In  the  later  portion  of  this  period,  no  one  in 
poetry  stood  up  in  the  place  of  Pope.  No  one  pos- 
sessed equal  weight  with  him,  or  could  for  a  moment 
challenge  his  rank.  Poetry  that  many  would  now 
prefer  to  that  of  Pope  belonged  to  the  time  of  John- 
son, yet  there  was  no  poet  who  was  so  productive, 
who  held  the  same  available  power,  or  could  com- 
mand any  considerable  part  of  the  influence  which 
fell  so  easily  to  the  corypheus  of  art.  Quantity  has 
some  weight  even  in  poetry,  and  the  prodigal  abun- 
dance of  a  fruitful  mind  gives  to  it  a  position  it  can- 
not claim  by  any  single  production,  though  that  pro- 
duction be  its  very  best.  The  second  moiety  of  the 
artistic  period  differed  then  from  the  first,  in  the  pre- 
eminence of  one  mind,  and  differed  from  it  and 
from  every  previous  period  in  our  literature,  in  the 
pre-eminence  of  prose  over  poetry.  As  the  poems 
of  Johnson  are  related  to  his  other  works,  so  was 
the  poetry  of  his  time  to  its  prose  productions. 
There  is  an  unmistakable  predominence  of  this  sec- 
ondary branch  of  literature,  which  indicates  the 
period  to  be  one  peculiarly  degenerate  in  art. 
Poetry  had  become  sparse,  sporadic,  and  was  wait- 
ing for  a  new  development ;  prose  was  prolific,  domi- 
nant, critical,  taking  vigorous  possession  of  new 
fields. 


ASCENDENCY    OF    PROSE.  I85 

The  reason  for  this,  or  rather  one  reason  for  it, 
it  is  not  difficult  to  render.  Criticism  always  makes 
for  the  relative  enlargement  of  prose  in  several 
ways.  Art,  in  its  critical,  speculative  bearing,  is  a 
triumph  of  the  intellect  over  the  emotions,  and  is 
thus  an  extension  of  the  sphere  of  thought.  The 
didactic  spirit  is  uppermost,  and  finds  in  prose  its 
ready  and  fitting  instrument.  The  dominant  ten- 
dency is  one  which  stands  in  direct,  intrinsic  affinity 
with  this  simple,  and,  for  mere  truth,  primary,  form 
of  composition,  and  cannot  fail,  therefore,  often  to 
prefer  it.  The  impulse  which  at  another  time  would 
expend  itself  in  a  poem,  will  now  be  taken  up  by  a 
critique ;  and  a  dissertation  on  method  will  be  sub- 
stituted for  performance.  Further,  art  being  every- 
where active  as  a  formative,  external  force,  will  lay 
hold  of  prose,  reshape  it,  give  it  new  excellencies,  and 
be  proportionately  enamored  of  it.  There  was  little 
for  the  critical  feeling  merely  to  prefer  in  the  poems 
of  Pope  above  the  papers  of  Addison.  In  some 
respects,  the  latter  held  the  advantage  as  against 
the  former.  Their  beauties  were  fresh,  spontaneous 
and  natural.  Poetry  was  passing  its  zenith,  prose 
was  mounting  to  it.  This  was  for  the  first  time 
coming  into  the  power  that  belonged  to  it,  while 
that  was  only  gathering  a  second  and  inferior  har- 
vest. The  intrinsic  force  of  the  two,  their  spon- 
taniety,  was  naturally  proportioned  to  this  fact.  This 
fact,  then,  so  peculiar  to  the  period,  of  the  ascen- 
dency of  prose,  we  hold  to  be  a  direct  issue  of  the 
cold  and  critical  temper  which  ruled  in  literature, 
calling  the   thoughts  into    unwonted   activity,  and 


1 86    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

proportionately  restricting  the  spontaneous  expres- 
sion of  the  emotions.  Those  wrought  best  in 
poetry  who,  like  Goldsmith,  were  inevitably  emo- 
tional, and  could  not  be  driven  from  the  fastnesses 
of  a  tender,  passionate  nature,  by  the  fashion  of  the 
time,  or  the  ridicule  of  men. 

Another  diiTerence  is  found  between  the  earlier 
portions  of  the  century  and  its  later  years  in  the 
style  of  Johnson  as  contrasted  with  that  of  Ad- 
dison. Johnson,  in  accepted  tendencies,  in  the 
grounds  of  his  critical  judgments,  was  in  the  line 
of  direct  descent  from  Addison  ;  though,  by  the 
formation  of  his  own  mind,  he  was  very  diverse 
from  him.  Following  in  the  same  form  of  com 
position,  he  supplemented  the  Tatler  and  Spectator 
with  the  Idler  and  Rambler,  and  these  papers 
closed  this  chapter  of  prose  art  in  our  literature. 
In  their  moral  tone,  social  purpose,  and  critical 
spirit,  the  unequal  portions  contributed  by  Ad- 
dison and  Johnson  to  the  splendid  completion  of 
Steele's  fortunate  conception,  were  identical ;  in 
aptness  of  execution  and  ease  in  style  they  were 
very  different.  These  two  men,  working  with  one 
spirit  and  under  similar  circumstances,  admirably 
illustrate  the  importance  of  the  factor  of  original 
endowment.  The  manner  of  Addison  was  impos- 
sible to  Johnson  ;  his  rugged  and  ponderous  nature 
utterly  forbade  it.  Johnson  puts  himself  in  inev- 
itable and  unfavorable  contrast  with  Addison  by 
a  style  inflexible,  weighty,  not  to  say  heavy,  and 
full  of  a  controlling  mental  habit.  He  thus 
brought  a  powerful,  personal  element  to    the  por- 


THE    STYLE    OF   JOHNSON.  1 87 

tion  of  the  period  he  so  strongly  influenced.  The 
tendencies  of  his  own  nature  must  be  added  to 
those  of  his  time,  as  second  to  them  only  in 
weight.  His  style  has  been  thought  to  owe  its  im- 
pression to  the  choice  of  less  familiar  words,  es- 
pecially those  of  Latin  origin,  and  thus  to  fall 
easily  into  pomposity.  This  is  scarcely  a  suffi- 
cient statement  of  the  case.  His  style  acquires 
its  chief  characteristics  from  the  penetrating,  analytic 
mind  of  the  author.  This  imparted  a  reflective, 
discriminating  form  to  his  language,  and  led  to 
a  choice  of  words  critical  and  explicit.  His  com- 
position is  full  of  antithesis  ;  he  carefully  balances 
the  thought,  limits  it  on  this  side  and  on  that, 
and  exhibits  it  in  various  relations.  An  exact 
poise  of  ideas  and  correspondence  of  considera- 
tions accompany  him  in  his  composition,  whether 
it  be  grave  or  humorous  ;  while  passages  made 
cumbersome  by  words  merely,  are  infrequent. 
He  himself  has  ridiculed  this  pretentious  verbiage 
in  Rasselas.  "  To  live  according  to  nature,"  said 
the  philosopher,  "  is  to  act  always  with  due  regard 
to  the  fitness  arising  from  the  relations  and  qual- 
ities of  causes  and  effects ;  to  concur  with  the 
great,  unchangeable  scheme  of  universal  felicity  ; 
to  co-operate  with  the  general  disposition  and 
tendency  of  the  present  system  of  things.  The 
prince  soon  found  that  this  was  one  of  the  sages 
whom  he  should  understand  less  as  he  heard  him 
more." 

Johnson  himself  was    not  often    misled  by  the 
pomp  of  words,  or  occupied  by  mere  sound.       A 


l88     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

thoughtful  and  dignified  manner,  inborn  to  the 
style  in  his  very  conception  of  the  topic,  prepared 
the  way  with  him  for  a  full  and  formal  phrase- 
ology. The  idea  was  no  more  colloquial  than  the 
manner  in  which  he  put  it.  It  was  not  a  choice 
of  words,  but  a  ponderous  quality  and  gait  of 
mind,  that  made  Johnsonese  so  distinguishable  a 
style.  The  classical  taste  which  Johnson  shared 
with  his  time,  served  indeed  to  color  the  large 
vocabulary  to  which  his  discriminating,  analytic 
thought  gave  occasion,  and  helped  to  impart  an 
appearance  of  pomposity. 

The  following  examp'e  from  the  Idler,  of 
March  15,  1756,  shows  the  well  defined,  formal 
path  by  which  he  threaded  his  way  through  the 
most  familiar  topic.  "  I  lived  in  a  state  of  celi- 
bacy beyond  the  usual  time.  In  the  hurry,  first 
of  pleasure  and  afterward  of  business,  I  felt  no 
want  of  a  domestic  companion ;  but  becoming 
weary  of  labor,  I  soon  grew  weary  of  idleness, 
and  thought  it  reasonable  to  follow  the  custom  of 
life,  and  to  seek  some  solace  of  my  cares  in 
female  tenderness,  and  some  amusement  of  my 
leisure  in  female  cheerfulness. 

"  The  choice  which  is  long  delayed  is  commonly 
made  at  last  with  great  caution.  My  resolution 
was  to  keep  my  passions  neutral,  and  to  marry  only 
in  compliance  with  my  reason.  I  drew  upon  a  page 
of  my  pocket-book  a  scheme  of  all  female  virtues 
and  vices,  with  the  vices  which  border  on  every  vir- 
tue, and  the  virtues  which  are  allied  to  every  vice. 
I  considered  that  wit  was  sarcastic,  and  magnanim- 


JOHNSON.  189 

ity  imperious ;  that  avarice  was  economical,  and 
ignorance  obsequious,  and  having  estimated  the  good 
and  evil  of  every  quality,  employed  my  own  dili- 
gence and  that  of  my  friends  to  find  the  lady  in 
whom  nature  and  reason  had  reached  that  happy 
mediocrity  which  is  equally  remote  from  exuberance 
and  deficiency." 

The  humor  of  this  composition  lies  very  much  in 
the  deliberate,  cautious  manner  in  which  a  great, 
unwieldy  mind  moves  among  trifles  ;  selects  the  few 
points  that  promise  a  plausible  support  in  its  pro- 
gress, and  tempers  itself  to  a  good-natured  tender- 
ness toward  the  safety  and  pleasure  of  others.  So 
an  elephant  might  walk  among  sportive  children. 

Here  is  a  stiffly  outlined  portrait  of  Square  Blus- 
ter :  "  He  is  wealthy  without  followers  ;  he  is  mag- 
nificent without  witnesses ;  he  has  birth  without 
alliance,  and  influence  without  dignity.  His  neigh- 
bors scorn  him  as  a  brute ;  his  dependants  dread 
him  as  an  oppressor;  and  he  has  the  gloomy  com- 
fort of  reflecting  that  if  he  is  hated  he  is  likewise 
feared." 

Johnson,  though  grounded  in  the  same  princi- 
ples of  criticism,  stood  in  marked  contrast  to  the 
simple,  genial  Addison,  and  united  with  him  to 
illustrate  the  very  different  phases  which  one  school 
of  art  may  present. 

Addison  and  Johnson  were  alike  primarily  prose 
writers.  In  this  department  lay  their  chief  work  and 
their  crowning  excellencies.  Both,  however,  ven- 
tured into  the  field  of  poetry,  with  something  of  the 
boldness  that  falls  to  criticism,  yet  with  unequal  sue- 


IQO      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

cess.  The  Cato  of  Addison  received  the  highest 
praise  from  Voltaire,  and  is  one  of  the  best  plays  of 
the  Franco-English  school.  Few  have  done  the 
Irene  of  Johnson  any  reverence. 

Having  sketched  the  relations  of  the  two  por- 
tions of  the  artistic  period,  we  wish  to  deepen  two 
impressions  concerning  its  later  years ;  first,  the 
rapid  development  of  prose ;  second,  the  coldly 
critical  dictatorship  of  Johnson.  We  have  seen 
these  two  things  to  lie  in  the  normal  development 
of  the  forces  at  work.  Prose  henceforward  in 
English  literature  is  varied,  artistic,  voluminous, 
spreading  far  and  wide  into  many  realms  of  thought, 
like  a  swollen  torrent  that  has  escaped  its  mountain 
fastnesses,  and  covers  the  plain,  leaving  rich  allu- 
vial deposits  on  every  arable  field.  Theological 
composition,  which  more  than  any  other  kind  of 
prose  constituted  the  continuous,  central  current  of 
this  stream,  was  scarcely  abated  in  its  practical, 
stereotyped  form,  while  in  its  defensive,  speculative 
aspects,  it  showed  new  vigor.  The  age  was  critical, 
not  formally  so  in  art  merely,  but  centrally  so  in 
thought  also,  and  this  too  increasingly.  New  de- 
partments of  knowledge  were  rapidly  opening  in 
the  natural  sciences,  new  methods  of  investigation 
were  gaining  ground.  The  minds  of  men  were  put- 
ting in  many  directions  bolder  questions,  which 
called  for  other  than  conventional  answers.  This 
movement  was  met  in  a  vigorous  and  truly  national 
method  by  such  writers  as  Berkeley,  I'alcy  and  But- 
ler. New  defenses  were  thrown  uji  to  suit  the  new 
attack.     A  force  was  developed  within  the  church 


THEOLOGICAL    COMPOSITION.  IQI 

(vhich  showed  the  hold  of  Christian  truth  on  the 
mind  to  be  vital  and  sufificient.  While  Methodism 
was  giving  new  proof  of  this  practical  control,  its 
theoretical  force  was  as  signally  shown  by  its 
apologists.  The  works  of  some  of  these  authors 
are  remarkable  for  their  insight,  as  Butler's 
Analogy ;  others  for  beauties  of  style  and  clcarnes 
of  statement,  as  Paley's  Natural  Theology,  and 
Horse  Paulinae  ;  and  others  for  a  combination  of 
these  characteristics,  as  Berkeley's  Alciphron. 

Metaphysics  was  relatively  more  fruitful  even 
than  theology.  The  Positive  Philosophy  has  rightly 
grouped  these  two  phases  of  thought,  for  they  are 
closely  dependent.  In  this  field,  the  writings  of 
Hume  at  this  time  mark  an  era  ;  most  modern  un- 
belief traces  its  line  of  descent  through  him.  Often 
sophistically  met,  rarely  indeed  answered,  and  re- 
quiring for  their  complete  refutation  a  profounder 
philosophy  than  has  yet  been  attained  by  us,  at 
least  with  any  generality,  his  views  have  slowly 
penetrated  the  purely  scientific  mind,  till  they  are 
now  entrenched  in  it  as  an  invincible  prejudice 
against  the  supernatural,  against  every  distinctively 
spiritual  view.  A  philosophy  so  immediate  and 
fatal  in  its  theological  inferences  could  not  but  call 
forth  much  activity  in  this  department,  and  the 
Scotch  school  of  metaphysicians,  Reid,  Stewart, 
Hamilton,  began  to  follow  in  a  reactionary  line  ; 
while  an  equally  able  series  of  writers  developed 
the  tendencies  included  in  the  works  of  Locke  and 
Hume. 

Thus  it  fell  to  metaphysics  to  commence  a  skep- 


192    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

cicism  suicidal  to  its  own  line  of  investigation.  Its 
overthrow  was  ?i  fclo  dc  sc,  not  the  work  of  physics. 
It  is  due  to  Hume,  pre-eminently  a  metaphysician, 
and  to  an  argument  to  its  very  core  metaphysical, 
more  than  to  any  other  one  agency,  that  mental  sci- 
ence has  fallen  into  such  general  disrepute,  and  been 
so  far  lost  in  physical  inquiries.  The  end  is  not  yet. 
We  here  only  mark  the  fact,  that  the  earlier  sieges 
were  laid,  and  the  first  manifest  breaches  opened, 
at  this  pregnant,  critical  period,  in  the  invasion  of 
the  laws  of  mind  by  those  of  matter.  No  discus- 
sion more  central  was  ever  sprung  upon  the  thoughts 
of  men  than  the  one  involved  in  miracles ;  and  the 
loud  acclaim  with  which,  from  time  to  time,  the  vic- 
tory of  the  scientists  is  rung  out,  only  shows  how 
far  off  the  real  issue  of  the  battle  is.  The  most  ob- 
vious English  date  of  the  origin  of  this  universal 
and  irrepressible  controversy,  which  colors  every 
department  of  knowledge,  and  is  daily  gathering  its 
pros  and  cons  from  every  field  of  thought,  is  found 
in  the  prose  of  this  time. 

From  the  cold  speculative  outlook  of  this  era, 
there  came  denials  which  set  at  jar  and  controversy 
the  two  elements  of  creation,  the  natural  and  the 
supernatural,  and  strove  to  reduce  under  the  rigid 
formalism  of  immutable  law  its  entire  handiwork. 
No  discussion  could  be  more  purely  critical,  yet 
more  profoundly  significant,  than  this.  It  rested 
with  it  to  decide  in  religion,  philosophy  and  art 
whether  we  were  to  have  the  mere  colored  rind  of 
wax  fruitage  with  which  to  staunch  our  hunger,  or 
the  inscrutable,  unformulated  life  of  free  and  inex- 


HISTORY.  193 

hanstible  forces — a  being  offered  not  as  a  finality, 
a  finished  product,  but  as  a  first  term  in  the  vocab- 
ulary of  wisdom  and  of  love. 

The  speculative,  germinant  character  of  the 
epoch  is  also  seen  in  political,  social  science.  The 
English  constitution  and  law  found  presentation 
and  historical  discussion  in  The  Commentaries  of 
Blackstone ;  and  Political  Economy,  in  the  works 
of  Adam  Smith,  Malthus,  Ricardo,  rose  to  the  pro- 
portions of  a  distinct  science.  That  wakefulness 
of  thought  is  h'^re  first  shown  which  has  since 
busied  itself  with  so  many  social  questions,  past, 
present  and  future. 

Indeed  no  one  thing  more  discloses  the  char- 
acter of  a  period  than  its  estimate  of  historical 
inquiries,  and  historical  methods  of  investigation ; 
than  a  tendency  to  look  for  the  explanation  of 
present  states  and  facts  in  their  relation  to  pre- 
vious ones.  Herein  is  a  due  appreciation  of  the 
force  and  continuity  of  causes,  indicating  a 
thorough  scientific  and  reformatory  tendency.  In 
this  period  there  arose  a  very  conspicuous  group 
of  historians,  grading  upward  in  the  order  given, 
Hume,  Robertson,  Gibbon,  the  last  being  from 
our  present  point  of  view,  the  most  interesting. 
History  has  two  complete  products,  which  it 
slowly  approaches.  The  first  is  a  narrative  of 
events,  correctly  and  exactly  sketched,  propor- 
tioned one  to  another  by  intrinsic  value,  by  the 
aggregate  of  human-weal  involved  in  them,  and 
rendered  with  the  light  and  coloring  of  real  life 
upon  them.  The  historic  picture  thus  shows 
9 


194     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

knowledge,  insight,  and  feeling.  It  is  no  bald 
outline,  nor  do  its  leading  figures  lack  the  sym- 
metry and  support  of  a  thoroughly  wrought  back- 
ground of  those  conditions  and  companions  of 
life  which  lend  to  them  pre-eminence  and  value. 
Nor  are  the  historic  events  merely  given  in  light 
and  shade,  they  are  deeply  tinged  by  the  sym- 
pathies, passions,  affections  which  made  them,  in 
their  own  day,  living  experiences  of  the  gene- 
ration then  passing.  The  second  product  is  phi- 
losophical, a  philosophy  of  histoi "  The  narrative 
now  clings  to  the  connection  of  causes.  It  treats 
slightly  chronological  dependencies.  It  cares  not 
to  be  full  in  the  statement  of  facts  ;  it  would 
gladly  assume  a  knowledge  of  these,  and  only 
brings  them  forward  as  they  serve  to  mark  the 
line  of  action,  of  significant  forces  transmitted 
through  them,  and  modified  by  them.  It  searches 
for  the  channels,  the  deep  undcr-currents,  on 
which  have  floated  down  the  pomp  of  historic 
events.  Its  facts  are  buoys  and  light-houses 
along  this  line  of  progress.  The  eddies  and 
'shallows  and  silent  pools  which  are  mere  topog- 
raphy, failing  to  define  the  strength  and  direction 
of  currents,  the  interlacing  lines  of  force,  it 
passes  in  rapid  survey.  It  seeks  only  to  outline 
ev^ents,  and  give  their  osseous  frame-work,  on  which, 
as  fulcrums  and  levers,  the  muscular  and  nervous 
energy  of  the  time  has  been  expended. 

These  two  i^roducts  are  reached  by  a  long  road. 
Legendary  and  historical  traditions  ;  chronicles  of 
easy   credulity;     annals    with    barren    dates,    mere 


HISTORY.  195 

pegs  divested  of  the  tapestry  which  should  hang 
upon  them ;  histories  that  busy  themselves  only 
with  kings  and  warriors,  with  the  trappings,  the 
glitter  and  clatter  of  life ;  historic  criticism  that 
pulls  to  pieces  this  poetry  of  the  past  in  search  of 
the  scattered,  germinant  facts  out  of  which  imagi 
nation  has  grown  its  luxuriant,  tangled  and  fanciful 
narratives ;  the  philanthropic  estimate  of  human 
life,  that  seeks  for  it  in  quantity  and  quality  wher- 
ever found  ;  the  philosophic  impulse,  that  wishes  to 
master  causes,  and  through  them  effects,  all  these 
lie  between  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  history, 
between  the  period  in  which  the  human  mind  takes 
pleasure  in  dream-land,  cloud-land  only,  and  that 
in  which  it  strives  to  repeat  the  glowing  dyes  of 
fancy  in  the  sombre  fields  of  its  daily  experience, 
setting  more  store  by  the  simple  flowers  at  its  leet 
than  by  the  crimson  banks  of  color  that  come  and 
go  as  transient  shore-lines  of  flitting  vapor. 

Gibbon  claims  especial  attention,  because  his 
work  made  so  sudden  and  decided  an  advance  in 
history.  It  is  possessed  by  the  critical  spirit,  deals 
constantly  with  causes,  and  presents  a  style  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  formal  rhetorical  tendency  of 
his  time.  The  v^ery  objection  which  has  been  taken 
to  him,  that  he  over-estimates  the  natural  agencies 
connected  with  the  propagation  of  Christianity,  and 
under-estimates,  or  altogether  overlooks,  the  super- 
natural ones,  indicates  an  excellence  in  his  method, 
while  it  discloses  the  unsympathetic  and  somewhat 
barren  nature  with  which  he  performed  his  too 
purely  intellectual  work.     Neither  he,  nor  the  spirit 


196    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATUKE. 

« 

of  the  times  which  he  expressed,  was  aglow  with 
conviction,  nor  alive  to  the  hopes  and  fears  of  life, 
its  emotional  issues  near  at  hand  and  far  off.  Gib- 
bon presents  in  a  cold,  it  is  true,  yet  in  a  clear, 
striking  and  valuable  form  some  of  the  best  results 
of  the  new  critical  tendency  in  the  then  fresh  de- 
partment of  history. 

Another  branch  of  literature,  that  of  oratory, 
reached  remarkable  excellence  in  this  last  half  of  the 
century.  Chatham,  Fox,  Burke,  Sheridan,  Erskine, 
Pitt,  Grattan  form  a  group  not  since  equalled. 
The  greatest  of  these,  Burke,  well  presents  in  his 
personal  history  the  influences  which  attended  on 
and  secured  this  growth  of  eloquence.  Bold  politi- 
cal criticism,  new  political  principles,  and  wakeful  in- 
dependent sympathies,  furnished  the  conditions  and 
grounds  of  his  oratory.  A  period  that  is  fresh  and 
vigorous  in  thought,  exacting  in  style,  and  aroused 
by  urgent,  practical,  yet  national  interests,  gives 
the  best  possible  conditions  of  eloquence.  The 
years  under  consideration  were  of  this  character. 
Its  critical  spirit  was  at  once  formal  and  substan- 
tial, rhetorical  and  philosophical,  brilliant  in  state- 
ment and  bold  in  speculation.  Weighty  political 
interests,  no  longer  amenable  to  laws  of  conquest 
or  of  violence,  gave  occasion  for  the  enunciation  of 
new  principles  in  the  government  of  colonies  that 
had  suddenly  grown  into  national  strength  in  the 
progress  of  English  commerce.  Allied  to  this  ora- 
tory, were  the  Letters  of  Junius,  which  carried  po- 
litical criticism  to  the  height  of  boldness,  force  and 
severity. 


THE    NOVEL.  I97 

As  was  to  be  expected,  rhetoric  and  criticism  as 
arts  began  to  receive  some  of  their  best  contribu- 
tions. The  works  of  Campbell,  Kames,  Blair,  have 
been  for  a  century  manuals  in  this  department 
Blair,  though  light  in  calibre,  copious  and  some 
what  superficial,  has  by  his  simplicity,  clearnes 
and  correctness  held  his  ground  against  many  mod 
ern  writers.  He  well  presents  in  precept  those 
formal  excellencies  of  style  of  which  he  found  such 
ample  illustration  in  Temple,  Addison,  Atterbury. 

We  urge  this  unusual  productiveness  of  the 
period  in  prose  at  only  one  more  point,  the  novel. 
From  a  merely  literary,  artistic  view,  the  novels  of 
this  era,  when  we  consider  their  number,  variety 
and  merit,  constitute  its  most  interesting,  as  they 
do  its  freshest  feature.  The  novel  is  the  last  stage 
of  prose  in  its  progress  toward  poetry,  and  the  first 
field  that  offers  congenial  cultivation  as  an  author 
declines  from  verse.  The  novel  of  this  period  was 
reached  in  both  ways.  Sterne,  Smollett,  De  Foe 
climbed  up  to  this  art-level  from  humbler  labor ; 
Fielding  turned  back  to  it  from  dramatic  poetry. 
That  the  barometrical  column  should  have  rested  in 
literature  at  this  point,  unable  to  rise  permanently 
above  it,  shows  how  rare  and  light  the  intellectual 
atmosphere  had  become  by  continuous  criticism, 
and  that  it  was  waiting  to  be  toned  again  to  its  usu- 
al tonic  force  and  productive  power  by  a  revolution, 
a  storm  of  sentiment,  seeking  the  conditions  of  new 
and  higher  order  in  freedom,  and  in  living,  spiritual 
convictions. 

De  Foe  possessed  the  measure  of  genius  which 


198      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

attaches  to  thorough  reahzation.  He  sought  and 
attained  the  minute  truthfuhiess,  the  verisimihtude 
of  the  pre-RaphaeUte  art.  But  as  this  perfect  mas- 
tery of  details  was  animated  and  directed  by  no  un- 
usual insight  into  forces,  nor  knowledge  of  principles, 
he  only  reached,  as  in  Robinson  Crusoe,  the  level 
of  an  excellent  story,  an  object-book,  the  delight  of 
boys.  Richardson  adopted  the  most  cumbersome 
form  of  story-telling,  that  of  letters.  This  method, 
in  its  tedious  indirection,  is  to  the  novel  what  dialogue 
is  to  philosophical  discussion,  a  piece  of  mechanism 
fitted  to  check  the  thought,  iron  it  thin,  and  deliver 
it  in  the  largest  number  of  sheets.  Richardson's 
patient  assiduity  was  at  one  with  his  chosen  method. 
By  minute  invention  and  almost  insensible  accre- 
tion, he  worked  up  his  plots,  entangling  his  charac- 
ters in  a  net  not  the  less  severe  in  its  constraint, 
nor  tragical  in  the  issues  involved  because  of  the 
thousand  gossamer  threads  of  which  the  insect  in- 
genuity of  the  author  had  spun  it.  Aiming  directly 
as  he  did,  at  moral  influence,  it  yet  may  well  be 
doubted  whether  the  sensual  passions  which  he 
chose  to  delineate  will  admit  to  advantage  of  this 
slow,  anatomical  exposure. 

Fielding  is  every  way  different.  His  narrative 
is  easy,  his  characters  genuine  and  spirited.  Moral- 
ity is  not  with  him  a  law,  and  his  scenes  and  heroes 
are  often  vicious  and  vulgar.  Yet  a  certain  nobility, 
generosity  or  sincerity  of  nature  goes  far  to  redeem 
those  whom  the  author  likes ;  while  opposite  vices 
stamp  with  legible  censure  his  real  reprobates. 
Truth  to  English  nature  and  sympathy  with  manly 


THE    NOVELISTS.  I99 

quality  perf  im  in  Fielding,  to  a  degree,  the  work 
of  morality. 

Smollett  is  much  less  worthy  of  commendation. 
He  tells  a  story,  not  with  the  zest  of  insight  and  a 
loving  appreciation  of  character,  but  as  men  re- 
hearse in  bar-rooms  tales  made  up  of  grotesque  and 
gross  incidents,  and  coarse  physical  jests.  He 
generally  gathers  his  material  from  a  low  region, 
and  has  little  disposition  to  shake  it  clean  in  the 
getting.  The  English  novel  has  hardly  touched  a 
lower  point  than  in  Smollett.  The  prying,  sensual 
inuendo  of  Sterne,  alive  to  mischief,  is  yet  redeemed 
by  greater  humor.  Such  was  the  industry  of  prose 
composition  in  this  period,  opening  all  the  veins  of 
thought  that  have  since  been  so  assiduously  wrought. 

The  second  fact  to  which  we  were  to  revert  was 
the  rule  of  Johnson.  There  is  nothing  quite  like  it 
in  our  literature.  The  great  minds  of  our  English 
race  had  come  and  gone,  but  none  of  them  had  held 
such  absolute  authority.  Nor  was  this  due  to  any 
inferiority  of  power  in  the  literary  cotemporaries  of 
Johnson.  No  cluster  of  names  in  any  one  period 
brings  before  us  greater  or  more  varied  talent,  than 
those  of  Reynolds,  Burke,  Fox,  Goldsmith,  Garrick, 
Gibbon,  Sheridan,  Adam  Smith,  and  VVarton.  We 
may  be  sure  that  it  was  no  easy,  indolent  supremacy 
which  such  men  as  these  yielded  to  Johnson. 

A  singular  instance  of  the  deference  paid  him 
appears  in  the  round-robin  addressed  him  by  Burke, 
Gibbon,  Sheridan,  and  others  requesting  a  slight 
modification  of  the  epitaph  he  had  written  on  Gold- 
smith.    If  there  was  some  intentional  humor  in  this 


200    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

method  of  appeal  to  the  hterary  leader,  making  the 
thunderbolt  of  his  wrath  harmless  by  the  circle  of 
points  that  drew  off  and  dissipated  its  impatient 
fire,  there  was  also  in  it  a  sincere  regard,  and  an 
unwillingness,  on  the  part  of  these  men,  each  great 
in  his  own  way,  singly  to  injure  his  feelings,  or 
provoke  his  resentment.  Johnson,  in  his  later 
years,  held  a  quiet,  undisputed  supremacy.  This 
was  due,  as  we  have  intimated,  in  its  first  ground, 
to  the  fact  that  the  period,  as  one  of  criticism,  pre- 
pared the  way  for  immediate  and  personal  control 
on  the  part  of  any  one  pre-eminent  in  this  art ;  and, 
in  its  second  ground,  to  the  character  of  Johnson. 

Sound  intellectual  qualities,  common  sense, 
continuous  and  protracted  composition,  led  him  to 
criticism,  and,  in  spite  of  his  dictatorial  tendencies, 
kept  his  conclusions  within  safe  and  acceptable 
limits ;  vigorous  thought  sustained  what  he  wrote 
and  said.  While  this  is  true,  he  was  greatly  defi- 
cient in  that  profound,  philosophic  spirit,  in  that 
unbiassed  opinion,  that  calm,  ready  candor  and  deli- 
cate sympathy  which  deepen,  while  they  moderate, 
the  mind's  action.  His  was  the  attitude  of  the  con- 
troversialist, who  sees  clearly  on  his  own  side,  feels 
to  the  full  all  the  prejudices  that  sustain  him,  and 
is  conveniently  blind  to  the  positions  of  an  adver- 
sary. He  was  acute  and  analytic  rather  than  pro- 
found and  comprehensive.  His  powers  were  thor- 
oughly disciplined  in  spirited,  personal  intercourse, 
and  the  free  methods  of  conversation.  He  used 
arguments  as  weapons,  now  of  defence,  now  of 
offence,  with  very  little  quiet,  thorough  investiga- 


JOHNSON.  201 

tion  of  the  whole  subject.  Like  a  professional  sol- 
dier, he  took  up  arms  and  laid  them  down  again 
without  primary  reference  to  the  justice  of  the  cause. 
His  own  opinions,  such  as  had  fallen  to  him  with 
an  honest,  but  strongly  biassed  nature,  were  the 
ground  which  he  set  himself  to  defend  in  sturdy, 
English  fashion.  He  could  enjoy  victory,  and  suffer 
keenly  under  defeat.  Goldsmith  said  of  him,  "  There 
is  no  getting  along  with  Johnson,  if  his  pistol  misses 
fire,  he  knocks  you  down  with  the  butt  of  it."  Yet 
even  then  he  knew  how  to  give  either  the  force  of 
wit  or  the  color  of  truth  to  the  blow.  Burke 
affirmed  of  him,  that  "Whatever  side  he  advocated, 
he  gave  good  reasons."  Clear-minded  men  are  of 
all  persons  most  sophistical  when  they  choose  to 
be ;  most  easily  convince  themselves  and  others 
of  the  justness  of  what  they  pi'opose. 

To  this  keen  rather  than  clear  insight;  to  this 
wilful  rather  than  firm  bent  of  mind,  Johnson  added 
in  conversation  quick,  dexterous,  unsparing  wit. 
This  rendered  him  a  formidable  adversary.  It  gave 
a  precision  to  his  blows  that  made  them  instant!) 
effective.  He  rebukes  in  this  wise  the  timidity  of 
Bolingbroke,  who  would  not  allow  the  publication 
of  his  works  till  after  his  death:  "Sir,  he  was  a 
scoundrel  and  a  coward,  a  scoundrel  for  charging  a 
blunderbuss  against  religion  and  morality;  a  cow- 
ard because  he  had  not  resolution  to  fire  it  off  him- 
self, but  left  a  half-crown  to  a  beggarly  Scotchman 
to  draw  the  trigger  after  his  death."  Miss  Hannah 
More  expressed  to  him  surprise  that  a  poet,  who 
had  written  Paradise  Lost,  should  compose  such 
9* 


202      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

poor  sonnets.  He  silences  the  critic  without  the 
labor  of  vindicating  the  maligned  poems,  without 
perhaps  himself  appreciating  them.  "  Milton,  mad- 
am, was  a  genius  that  could  cut  a  Colossus  from 
a  rock,  but  could  not  carve  heads  upon  cherry- 
stones." 

If  we  add  to  these  qualities  the  reputation  which 
attached  to  him  from  his  diversified,  protracted  and 
successful  literary  labors,  and  the  evidence  he 
always  gave  of  an  honest,  upright  and  even  tender 
nature,  we  see  sufificient  personal  grounds  for  his 
influence.  This  massiveness  and  soundness  of 
mind  and  heart  were  not  to  be  hidden  by  a  little 
irritability  of  temper,  nor  grossness  of  appetite,  nor 
coarseness  of  taste.  That  he  could  command  devo- 
ted and  disinterested  affection  is  seen  in  Boswell. 
The  unmeasured  contempt  that  Macaulay  has  ex- 
pressed for  the  friend  and  biographer  of  Johnson  is 
not  altogether  deserved.  There  is  a  sincerity  of 
admiration,  and  a  forgetfulness  of  personal  claims 
in  Boswell,  which  call  for  some  lenity.  If  he  had 
possessed  more  pride,  and  a  more  irritable  egotism, 
he  would  doubtless  have  escaped  the  scorn  which 
has  been  so  freely  bestowed  upon  him,  but  he 
would  also  have  lost  the  pleasure  of  much  profitable 
intercourse,  and  we  a  most  enjoyable  narrative. 
Let  us  be  content  with  our  own  nettlesome  inde- 
pendence, and  not  deride  the  assiduity  of  one  who 
could  profit  by  the  virtues  of  a  rare,  good  man  even 
in  submission  to  his  petty  faults.  As  long  as  we 
concede  so  much  to  the  duplicity  and  intrigue  of 
ambition,  to  complaisance  that  is  prompted  by  in- 


JOHNSON.  203 

terest,  we  may  grant  something  to  the  vanity  and 
adulation  of  an  unequal  friendship. 

The  control  which  Johnson  exercised  especially 
concerns  us  as  expressing  the  critical  character  and 
appreciation  of  the  period.  There  is  much  to  be 
commended  in  Johnson  as  a  critic ;  his  common 
sense  and  breadth  of  intellectual  activity  stood  him 
in  good  stead.  Yet  there  is  in  him  a  lack  of  emo- 
tional insight,  and  a  tendency  to  seek  everywhere 
formal  excellence  rather  than  inherent  power.  This 
is  seen  in  his  unqualified  acceptance  of  Pope  and 
Dryden,  and  his  evident  relish  of  their  art.  In  his 
Lives  of  the  Poets,  he  gives  the  famous  verses  of 
Denham  addressed  to  the  Thames, 

"  O  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme  ! 
Though  deep,  yet  clear;  though  gentle,  yet  not  dull ; 
Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full." 

and  adds,  that  "  Since  Dryden  has  commended 
them,  almost  every  writer  for  a  century  has  imitated 
them."  After  a  slight  criticism  he  proceeds  to  say, 
"The  passage,  however  celebrated,  has  not  been 
praised  above  its  merit."  The  thought  and  imagery 
of  these  verses  doubtless  constitute  them  a  neat 
piece  of  poetic  work,  but  not  one  fitted  to  be  the 
text  of  a  century,  and  the  model  of  a  school.  So 
used  they  could  hardly  fail  to  tether  the  fancy. 
They  compare  but  poorly,  we  think,  with  the  kin- 
dred lines  of  Wordsworth  : 

"  O,  glide  fair  stream  1  forever  so 

Thy  quiet  soul  on  all  bestowing, 

Till  all  our  minds  forever  flow 

As  thy  deep  waters  now  are  flowing.* 


204      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

In  the  same  spirit  he  echoes  Pope's  praise  of 
Dryden : 

*'  Wal  er  was  sm  oth  ;  but  Dryden  taught  to  join 
The  varying  verse,  the  full  resounding  line, 
The  long  majestick  march,  and  energy  divine." 

This  in  spirit  and  form  is  as  brim-full  of  sound 
as  the  march  of  boys  to  drum  and  fife.  With  feel- 
ings akin  to  those  which  led  to  this  commendation 
of  Pope's,  Johnson  accepts  under  protest  the 
blank-verse  of  Milton,  "verse  only  to  the  eye,"  as 
an  ingenious  critic  had  pronounced  it.  He  prefers 
the  heroic,  rhymed  measure  to  which  so  much  of 
our  English  poetry  has  timed  its  dreary,  methodical 
march,  as  soldiers  that  plod  wearily  through  a 
dull  day. 

It  was  this  opinion,  with  kindred  faults  in  his 
estimate  of  Milton,  which  led  Cowper  in  his  Letters 
to  say,  "  As  a  poet  Johnson  has  treated  Milton  with 
severity  enough,  and  has  plucked  one  or  two  of  the 
most  beautiful  feathers  out  of  his  Muse's  wings,  and 
trampled  them  under  his  great  foot.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  he  has  no  ear  for  poetical  numbers,  or 
that  it  was  stopped  by  prejudice  against  the  har- 
mony of  Milton's.  Was  there  ever  anything  so  de- 
lio  htful  as  the  music  of  Paradise  Lost  ?  It  is  like 
that  of  a  fine  organ,  has  the  fullest  and  deepest 
tones  of  majesty,  with  all  the  softness  and  elegance 
of  a  Dorian  lute — variety  without  end,  and  never 
equalled.  Yet  the  doctor  has  little  or  nothing  to 
say  upon  this  copious  iheme,  but  talks  something 
about  the  unfitness  of  the  English  language  for 
blank-verse,  and  how  apt  it  is,  in  the   mouths  of 


JOHNSON.  205 

some  readers,  to  degenerate  into  declamation.  Oh, 
I  could  thresh  his  old  jacket,  till  I  made  his  pen- 
sion jingle  in  his  pocket !"  •••■  Doubtless,  yet  the 
doctor  so  attacked,  with  unmollified  temper  and 
fresh  sagacity,  would  have  broadened  his  principles 
of  criticism,  and,  in  doughty  championship,  stamped 
hard  the  grounds  of  debate  without  once  surrender 
ing  them.  His  definition  of  genius,  given  in  the 
life  of  Cowley ;  and  of  poetry,  in  his  Preface  to 
Shakespeare,  both  exhibit  the  same  preponderance 
of  intellectual,  formal  action  over  intuitive,  spon- 
taneous power.  "  The  true  genius,"  he  says,  "  is  a 
mind  of  large  general  power,  accidentally  deter- 
mined to  some  particular  direction."  What  is  here 
assigned  to  accident  is  rather  the  very  essence  of 
genius.  The  irrepressible  impulse  betrays  the 
force  that  predetermines  it,  the  genius  that  con- 
trols it.  His  is  a  definition  of  talent,  not  of  genius  ; 
and  the  men  of  this  artistic  age  were  men  of  talent 
rather  than  of  genius. 

"  The  end  of  writing,"  says  Johnson,  "  is  to  in- 
struct ;  the  end  of  poetry  is  to  instruct  by  pleas- 
ing." Exactly,  Pope  would  have  said ;  hardly, 
Shakespeare  would  have  replied.  Under  this  defi- 
nition he  proceeds  to  criticise  the  great  dramatist 
in  this  wise  :  "  He  sacrifices  virtue  to  convenience, 
and  is  so  much  more  careful  to  please  than  to  in- 
struct, that  he  seems  to  write  without  any  moral 
purpose.  *  *  His  precepts  and  axioms  drop 
casually  from  him;  he  makes  no  just  distribution 
of  good  or  evil.  r>or  is  always  careful  to  show  in  the 

*  Reed's  British  Poets,  vol.  ii.  p.  18. 


206      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

virtuous  a  disapprobation  of  the  wicked."  If  John- 
son had  censured  Shakespeare  as  wanting  a  lieart) 
appreciation  of  virtue,  a  sufficiently  deep  insight 
into  it,  and  noble  sympathy  with  it,  his  criticism 
would  have  had  some  hold ;  but  certainly  the  poet 
can  be  excused  for  not  making  over,  in  the  way 
here  commended,  his  dramas  to  didactic  morality. 

Johnson  puts  in  a  personal  shape,  and  lends 
personal  force,  to  the  great  feature  of  his  period. 
He  is  in  intimate  action  and  reaction  with  it.  The 
life  about  him  serves  to  explain  much  that  is  in 
him  ;  yet  he,  by  his  individual  vigor,  gives  an  ulti- 
mate element  to  it  also.  It  is  thus  always.  Men 
are  not  ciphers,  in  search  of  some  integer  of  the 
physical  world  to  give  them  value.  They  them- 
selves are  a  final  law  to  much  that  is  around  them. 
What  proportions  of  heat  and  cold,  of  wet  and  dry 
agents,  were  able  to  give,  then  and  there,  to  Eng- 
lish society,  the  positive  character  known  as  John- 
son }  A  solid  Doric  column,  chipped  into  outline 
and  assigned  position  by  circumstances,  he  never- 
theless chiefly  interests  us  by  the  rugged  strength 
of  his  own  native  texture. 

Hawthorne  thus  speaks  of  him  :  "  I  was  but 
little  interested  in  the  legends  of  the  remote  an- 
tiquity of  Lichfield,  being  drawn  here  partly  to  see 
its  beautiful  cathedral,  and  still  more,  I  believe,  be- 
cause it  was  the  birthplace  of  Dr.  Johnson,  with 
whose  sturdy  English  character  I  became  acquaint- 
ed at  a  very  early  period  of  my  life,  through  the 
good  offices  of  Mr.  Boswell.  In  truth,  he  seems  as 
familiar  to  my  recollection,  and  almost  as  vivid  hj 


JOHNSON.  207 

his  personal  aspect  to  my  mind's  eye,  as  the  kindly 
figure  of  my  own  grandfather.  *  *  Beyond  all 
question  I  might  have  had  a  wiser  friend  than  he. 
The  atmosphere  in  which  alone  he  breathed  was 
dense  ;  his  awful  dread  of  death  showed  how  much 
muddy  imperfection  was  to  be  cleansed  out  of  him, 
before  he  could  be  capable  of  spiritual  existence 
he  meddled  only  with  the  surface  of  life,  and  never 
car^d  to  penetrate  farther  than  to  plough-share 
depth ;  his  very  sense  and  sagacity  were  but  a 
one-eyed  clear-sightedness.  I  laughed  at  him 
sometimes,  standing  beside  his  knee.  And  yet, 
considering  that  my  native  propensities  were  to- 
ward Fairy  Land,  and  also  how  much  yeast  is  gen- 
erally mixed  up  with  the  mental  sustenance  of  a 
New  Englander,  it  may  not  have  been  altogether 
amiss,  in  those  childish  and  boyish  days,  to  keep 
pace  with  this  heavy-footed  traveller,  and  feed  on 
the  gross  diet  that  he  carried  in  his  knapsack.  It 
is  wholesome  food  even  now.  And  then  how  Eng- 
lish !  Many  of  the  latent  sympathies  that  enabled 
me  to  enjoy  the  Old  Country  so  well,  and  that  so 
readily  amalgamated  themselves  with  the  Ameri- 
can ideas  that  seemed  the  most  adverse  to  them, 
may  have  been  derived  from,  or  fostered  and  kept 
alive  by,  the'  great  English  moralist.  Never  was  a 
descriptive  epithet  more  nicely  appropriate  than 
that !  Dr.  Johnson's  morality  was  as  English  an 
article  as  a  beefsteak."  * 

This  English  character  of  his  was  after  all  his 
chief  excellence.     Though   it   could   not,  under  a 

*  "  Our  Old  Home,"  p.  142. 


208      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

spiritual  exigency,  blossom  into  flowers,  like  Aaron's 
rod,  it  nevertheless  could  and  did  bring  many  a 
sturdy  buffet  to  the  back  of  fools.  One  who  so  em- 
bodies national  traits  as  did  Johnson  those  of  the 
English  tends  strongly  to  confirm  them.  He  pre- 
sents them  in  their  most  effective  and  brilliant  form, 
one  in  which  they  best  win  the  sympathy  and  com- 
mand the  respect  of  the  nation.  Though  the  faults 
of  such  an  one  are  as  salient  as  his  virtues7  the 
glamour  of  the  latter  disguise  the  former,  and  cause 
them,  in  their  milder  aspects,  to  pass  for  piquant 
eccentricities.  The  force,  therefore,  with  which  a 
nation  realizes  itself  in  a  man  like  Johnson  makes 
him  a  new  and  vigorous  agent  in  its  history. 


LECTURE   IX. 

A  statement  of  the  periods  of  English  Literature,  and  of  their  lela 
tions  to  each  other. 

Second  transition  period. — Churchill,  Akenside,  Thomson,  Gold- 
smith, Gray,  Collins,  Cowper,  Burns. — Forces  at  work  to  pro- 
duce a  new  era,  {a)  Revival  of  early  English  Poetry,  Percy's 
Reliques,  Warton's  History  of  English  Poetry,  {^))  German  In- 
fluence, Relations  of  France,  Germany  and  England,  {c)  Political 
and  Social  Questions,  (</)  Philosophy  and  Religion, — Skepticism. 

We  have  now  advanced  sufficiently  far  in  Eng- 
lish Literature  to  point  out  completely  and  finally 
the  dependence  on  each  other  of  its  several  periods, 
as  we  divide  and  designate  them.  Aside  from  the 
individual,  the  national  and  the  foreign  influences 
at  work  in  them,  we  draw  attention  to  their  natural 
sequence,  as  indicating  a  connection  which  went 
far  to  determine  their  character,  and  more  particu- 
larly that  of  later  ones.  The  first  or  initiative 
period  was  arrested  by  the  retrogressive  one,  and 
literature  made  a  second  start  in  the  first  creative 
period,  that  of  Elizabeth.  This,  by  an  easy,  natural 
transition,  passed  into  the  first  critical  period,  the 
so  called  Augustan  age  of  Pope  and  Johnson.  This 
again,  with  a  more  obscure  transition  closing  the 
eighteenth  century,  gave  place  to  a  second  creative 
period,  the  opening  years  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, the  years  of  Scott,  Byron,  Coleridge,  Words- 
worth.    This  has  been  followed  by  our  own  times, 

(209) 


2IO      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

an  age  more  marked  by  diffusion,  the  volume  and 
variety  of  literature,  than  by  any  one  pre-eminent 
quality  of  it.  Indeed  its  quality  is  largely  deter- 
mined by  this  very  fact  of  its  universal  circulation  ; 
that,  for  the  first  time,  literature  is  percolating  down 
through  all  classes,  and  seeking  to  quicken  them  all. 
We  shall  strive  later  to  show  how  this  diffusion  has 
been  occasioned.  We  now  refer  only  to  the  order 
of  sequence  between  the  three  great  eras,  the  de- 
terminative epochs,  of  our  literary  art,  the  first  cre- 
ative period,  the  first  critical,  and  the  second  cre- 
ative, each  separated  from  the  other  by  years  of 
transition.  Our  own  age  is  in  turn,  doubtless,  one 
of  transfer,  though  the  diffusive  powers  of  modern 
civilization  have  come  in  to  impress  upon  it  its  most 
salient  features. 

The  first  of  these  three  periods  being  given,  it 
tended  to  draw  after  it  the  other  two  in  order ;  as 
the  wave  heaped  up  before  the  wind  furrows  the  sea 
behind  it,  and  is  then  followed  by  a  second.  We  can- 
not expect  a  creative  era  to  last  long.  The  forces 
at  work  too  much  transcend  ordinary  experience. 
'The  clustering  in  of  influences  and  the  sudden  un- 
folding of  national  genius  under  them  are  as  neces- 
sarily transient  as  fruit  to  the  plant,  or  summer  to 
the  seasons.  When,  however,  these  forces  begin  to 
abate,  they  do  not  subside  at  once.  Though  none 
are  able  to  open  up  in  art  new  directions,  or  quite 
equal  its  masters  in  old  ones,  there  are  many  who 
can  catch  something  of  the  spirit  abroad,  and  who 
are  able,  in  various  ways,  to  perfect  the  movement 
already  initiated.      The  products  of  art  that  were 


DEPENDENCE    OF    ART    ON    CREATION.  211 

secured  while  the  inventive  power,  in  its  first  in- 
tensity, was  at  work  in  the  national  mind,  now,  on 
its  partial  decline,  give  both  the  occasion  and  the 
principles  of  criticism.  The  busy  workmen  cease 
indeed  to  quarry  the  living  rock,  but  they  chisel  dili- 
gently at  the  Titanic  blocks  already  lifted  from  their 
bed.  In  architecture  no  sooner  has  the  new  style 
struck  its  initial  idea,  found  a  master  under  it,  and 
been  pushed  to  a  magnificent  realization,  than  many 
come  in  to  modify,  mingle,  manipulate  ;  uniting  the 
new  to  the  old,  exhausting  the  new  in  its  manifold 
applications. 

Genius  can  scarcely  discern  all  that  is  in  it,  or 
stop  to  unfold  it.  Talent  .can  hardly  fail  to  take  up 
with  critical  delight  this  unfinished  work,  flattered 
at  once  by  laboring  with  the  masters  of  art,  and 
seeming  to  improve  upon  them.  Genius  gives 
occasions,  suggestions  to  talent ;  and  talent  patron- 
izes genius,  while  really  doing  its  servile  work. 
Criticism  follows  invention,  completes  it,  and  makes 
its  gains  permanent  in  rules  and  principles.  It  pre- 
pares the  national  taste,  in  its  moderated,  habitual 
action,  fully  to  appreciate  and  relish  great  works. 
It  enters  analytically  into  the  good  achieved,  and 
makes  way  ultimately  for  its  more  thorough  appre- 
ciation. 

But  art  easily  forgets  and  oversteps  these  its 
natural  limits.  As  it  is  liable  to  mistake,  in  the 
very  outset,  the  power  to  criticise  and  improve  fcr 
superiority,  so  is  it  afterward  inclined  to  delight  in 
rules  and  lines  of  order,  aside  from  any  complete- 
ness or  fulness  of  life  expressed  by  them.     Criti- 


212      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATUKE. 

cism  at  the  beginning,  true  criticism,  is  very  de- 
lightful. It  is  passing  beneath  the  form  to  the  force 
which  controls  it,  and  seeing  the  two  in  their  inter- 
dependence. But  when  the  fatal  excess  that  is  in 
it  overtakes  it ;  when  it  dreams  that  because  the 
form  expresses  the  force,  the  force  may  be  reached 
through  the  form,  it  passes  rapidly  into  superficiality 
and  coldness,  wearying  at  length  its  most  devoted 
disciples.  Thus  in  the  art  referred  to,  architecture, 
the  expansion  of  a  style  is  almost  sure  to  lead  to 
degeneration,  to  the  excesses  of  a  profligate,  ill- 
governed  fancy,  and  thus  to  be  brought  to  an  un- 
timely end. 

But  when  the  harvest  of  invention  has  been 
gathered,  and  the  rich  field  exhaustively  gleaned  by 
criticism,  there  must  needs  be  a  second  seed-time. 
None  can  say  how  long  the  winter  of  discontent 
that  follows  the  barrenness  of  mere  criticism  will 
last,  but  it  must  be  brought  to  a  close  by  a  second 
creative  period,  a  vigorous,  independent  reaction  in 
some  direction.  The  new  period  is  provoked  by 
the  manifest,  call  for  it,  by  the  disrelish  and  ennui 
of  the  hour  ;  and  sooner  or  later  national  forces,  if 
vigorous,  will  respond  to  this  claim  upon  them. 

Thus  the  three  periods  which  interlock  the 
other  periods  of  English  literature,  and  disclose  the 
inter-dependence  of  its  history,  succeeded  each 
other.  Shakespeare  initiated  the  movement,  Pope 
refined  upon  it,  Wordsworth  rebelled  against  the 
excesses  of  criticism,  and  returned  anew  to  nature. 
Creation  led  to  art,  and  art,  having  faithfully  spun  its 
last  silken  thread,  lay  a  dead  chrysalis,  till  a  new  life 


THE    SECOND    TRANSITION.  21  3 

was  ready  to  eat  asunder  its  sepulchral  cerements, 
and  betake  itself  again  to  the  air. 

In  the  present  lecture,  we  are  to  deal  with  a 
second  transition,  to  trace,  in  individual  poets  of  the 
closing  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  tlie  changes 
by  which  poetry  finally  passed  from  the  school  of 
Pope  to  the  freedom  indicated  by  Wordsworth.  It 
was  an  unpoetical  period,  the  critical  tendency  was 
very  slowly  expending  itself,  and  giving  place  to 
new  impulses  ;  so  slowly  that  for  sixty  years  there 
was  no  poet  of  the  first  rank,  scarcely  one  undenia- 
bly of  the  second  rank.  Churchill,  so  popular  in 
his  own  day,  so  nearly  forgotten  in  ours ;  a  rival 
then  in  fame  to  Dryden  and  Pope,  now  known 
chiefly  by  name,  seems  to  have  carried  to  its  last 
and  most  superficial  form  the  rhetorical,  satirical 
phase  of  poetry.  Akenside,  didactic  in  matter, 
stiffly  classical  in  manner,  with  a  coldly  poetic  eleva- 
tion of  diction,  was  not  fitted  to  help  his  age  onward 
either  in  freedom,  depth  or  boldness.  When  a  poet 
gives  himself  to  an  analytic  rehearsal  and  eulogy  of 
the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  we  may  be  pretty 
sure  that  his  poems  proceed  neither  from  the  bold, 
battling  flights  of  phantasy,  nor  from  the  loving, 
cooing  frenzy  with  which  it  feeds  and  nestles  it 
callow  young.  The  mood  of  mind  in  which  we 
write  about  the  passions  is  not  that  in  which  we 
most  strongly  feel  them. 

Thomson  presents  one  element  of  progress,  a 
glowing  and  fairly  faithful  description  of  natural 
beauties.  Of  this  inspiration  he  seems  to  have 
drunk  much  deeper  than  his  predecessors.     If  he 


214      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

had  added  to  this  love  of  nature  equally  earnest  hu- 
man sympathies,  and  could  have  given  these  the 
bent  of  a  creative  purpose,  he  would  have  possessed 
the  endowments  of  a  great  poet.  As  it  was,  his 
power  was  too  unsupported  and  single  to  yield 
large  results.  He  justifies  his  chosen  subjects  to 
himself,  and  gives  them  an  apologetic  introduction 
to  his  readers,  in  a  formal  appeal  to  the  ruling 
poetic  taste, 

"  Such  themes  as  these  the  rural  Maro  sung 
To  wide  imperial  Rome,  in  the  full  height 
Of  elegance  and  taste,  by  Greece  refined."  * 

He  is  thus  reassured,  since  Greeks  and  Romans 
had  done  the  like,  that  it  is  safe,  poetically  and  con- 
ventionally safe,  for  an  Englishman  to  sing  of 
"fostering  breezes,"  "softening  dews,"  and  "tender 
showers."  So  cold  an  enthusiasm  and  fearful  a 
search  for  precedents  might  well  be  followed  by  a 
feeble  dressing  up  of  homely  things  in  poetic  ver- 
biage, like  the  following : 

"  Hushed  in  short  suspense, 
The  plumy  people  streak  their  wings  with  oil, 
To  throw  the  lucid  moisture  trickling  off."  f 

Or  this : 

"  Urged  to  the  giddy  brink,  much  is  the  toil, 
The  clamour  much,  of  men  and  boys  and  dogs, 
Ere  the  soft  fearful  people  to  the  flood 
Commit  their  woolly  sides.  "  J 

When  we  can  wash  sheep  in  a  way  no  more 

straightforward  than  this,  our  muse  is  too  dainty 
for  husbandry. 

*  Spring.                         f  Ibid.  ^  Summer. 


THOMSON.  215 

Observe  the  coldness  of  the  following  personifi- 
cations : 

"  Half  in  a  blush  of  clustering  roses  lost, 
Dew  dropping  Coolness  to  the  shade  retires; 
There,  on  the  verdant  turf,  or  flowery  bed, 
By  gelid  founts  and  careless  rills  to  muse  : 
While  tyrant  Heat,  dispreading  through  the  sky, 
With  rapid  sway,  his  burning  influence  darts 
On  man  and  beast  and  herb  and  tepid  stream."* 

Such  abstractions  as  coolness  and  heat  are  here 
personified  without  the  slightest  descriptive  clue  by 
which  the  imagination  can  give  them  a  bodily  form ; 
or  rather  any  form  which  the  fancy  may  assign 
them  springs  up  instantly  to  contradict  and  make 
absurd  their  nature  and  functions.  Imagery  that  is 
present  as  comprehension  is  absent,  and  steals 
away  on  its  approach,  is  at  war  with  any  complete- 
ness of  thought.  Thomson,  though  in  vassalage 
to  his  times,  is  in  part  saved  from  them  by  the 
dreamy  sympathy  of  his  nature  with  the  physical 
world  about  him.  He  has  this  one  point  of  living 
contact  and  hence  of  freedom  and  power.  So  far 
we  stand  indebted  to  him. 

There  was  in  Goldsmith  no  such  force  or  inde- 
pendence of  intellectual  character  as  to  free  him 
from  current  impressions,  or  lead  him  to  new  re- 
sults. There  was,  however,  in  his  Irish  heart  a 
tenderness  and  a  profusion  of  sympathies  that  take 
from  his  poems  all  coldness,  and  lift  them  above  the 
school  to  which  they  belong.  His  personal  and  his 
poetic  merits  both  rest  on  the  same  emotional  basis. 

Perhaps  no  one  poem  is  a  higher,  a  more  suc- 

*  Sammer. 


2l6     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

cessful  expression  of  the  type  of  poetry  under  dis- 
cussion than  Gray's  Elegy.  We  would  rank  it  witn 
the  productions  of  the  critical  school,  not  because 
of  the  date  of  its  composition,  but  because  it  owes 
so  much  of  its  excellence  to  the  exactness  and  easy 
elegance  of  its  form.  With  no  peculiar  depth  of 
insight,  or  vigor  of  imagination,  it  confers  unfailing 
pleasure,  by  its  naturalness  of  sentiment,  its  sim- 
plicity and  aptness  of  expression.  In  the  highest 
work,  adverse  tendencies  always  meet;  form  and 
substance  concur.  Hence  any  unusual  strength  in 
either  element  is  sure  to  bring  with  it  fair  power 
in  the  other.  While  there  is  this  unity  of  qualities 
In  the  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  its 
predominant  excellence  seems  to  us  to  lie  in  the 
studied  simplicity  and  exactness  of  expression,  in  the 
easy  precision  with  which  the  sentiment  assumes  the 
imagery,  and  both,  the  metre  and  rhyme,  gliding  on 
with  them  the  clearest  and  most  peaceful  of  streams. 
In  Collins  we  meet  with  a  poet  of  a  much  bolder 
spirit.  His  own  time  no  more  accepted  him  than 
he  it.  His  poems  were  received  with  almost  com- 
plete neglect,  and  rose  to  rank  slowly  by  their  own 
buoyancy.  There  belong  to  Collins  a  new  intensity 
of  emotion,  a  vividness  of  personification,  a  broader 
sweep  of  imagination,  which  decidedly  distinguish 
his  composition  from  that  of  his  cotemporaries,  and 
impart  to  the  reader  a  sense  of  larger,  freer,  glad- 
der motion.  As  a  vigorous  bird  proportions  his 
curves  of  flight  to  his  power  of  muscle,  so  Collins 
adopts  a  more  varied  and  continuous  rhythm.  His 
successive  impulses  gather  up  and  weave  together 


COLLINS.  217 

more  lines,  and  we  are  borne  on  the  stronj^  wing  of 
a  single  image  through  a  series  of  varying  melodies, 
that  will  not  fall  apart  into  brief,  measured  stanzas. 
This  is  observable  in  the  opening  of  his  Ode  to 
Liberty ;  also  in  his  Ode  to  the  Passions : 

♦'  Who  shall  awake  the  Spartan  fife, 
And  call  in  solemn  sounds  to  life, 
The  youths,  whose  locks  divinely  spreading, 
Like  vernal  hyacinths  in  sullen  hue, 
At  once  the  breath  of  fear  and  virtue  shedding. 
Applauding  Freedom,  loved  of  old  to  view? 
What  new  Alcaeus,  fancy-blest, 
Shall  sing  the  sword,  in  myrtles  drest, 
At  wisdom's  shrine  awhile  its  flame  concealing, 
(What  place  so  fit  to  seal  a  deed  renown'd  ?) 
Till  she  her  brightest  lightnings  round  revealing, 
It  leap'd  in  glory  forth,  and  dealt  her  prompted  wound." 

This  fearless  and  impassioned  movement  of  Collins 
put  him  out  of  sympathy  with  the  tame,  restricted 
temper  about  him.  He  had  anticipated  the  season, 
and  must  needs  wait  the  approach  of  coming  sum- 
mer months. 

We  now  pass  farther  on  in  the  century,  and  meet 
with  two  poets  quite  divorced  from  the  old,  and,  in 
very  different  ways,  ready  to  usher  in  the  new, 
Cowper  and  Burns.  The  connection  of  Cowper 
with  the  approaching  and  better  spirit  of  poetry  is 
quite  generally  recognized.  Says  Craik :  "  As  the 
death  of  Johnson  closes  one  era  of  our  literature,  so 
the  appearance  of  Cowper  as  a  poet  opens  another. 
*  *  His  opinions  were  not  more  his  own  than 
his  manner  of  expressing  them.  His  principles  of 
diction  and  versification  were  announced,  in  part,  in 
the  poem   in  which  he  introduced  himself  to  the 


2l8      THE   PHILOSOPHY   OP    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

public,  his  Table-Talk,  in  which,  having  intimated 
his  contempt  for  the  'creamy  smoothness '  of  modern 
fashionable  verse,  u^here  sentiment  was  so  often 

"  '  Sacrificed  to  sound, 
And  truth  cut  short  to  make  the  period  round,' 

"he  exclaims, 

"  •  Give  me  the  line  that  ploughs  its  stately  course, 
Like  a  proud  swan,  conquering  the  stream  by  force : 
That,  like  some  cottage  beauty,  strikes  the  heart, 
Quite  unindebted  to  the  tricks  of  art.'  "  • 

Cowper  recognized  the  formality  and  rigidity 
into  which  literature  had  fallen  under  the  influence 
of  Pope,  and  complains  of  him  that  he  has 

"Made  poetry  a  mere  mechanic  art, 
And  every  warbler  has  his  tune  by  heart." 

This  independent  criticism  shows  that  he  caught 
sight  of  a  new  era,  and  designedly  hastened  its 
coming.  To  the  last  degree  timid  and  self-distrust- 
ful, his  mind  nevertheless  moved  independently 
and  vigorously  under  its  own  laws.  This  inner 
strength  and  courage  of  the  soul,  are  quite  distinct 
from  confidence  in  action,  and  are  often  met  with 
without  it.  Indeed  the  timidity  with  which  such  a 
mind  retires  upon  itself  leaves  it  only  the  more  free 
to  follow  its  own  bent.  It  was  the  seclusion  of  a 
diffident  nature  that  hemmed  Cowper  about,  and 
left  him  to  his  own  independent  judgment. 

The  fresh  impulse  which  Cowper  brought  to 
poetry  is  found  in  the  genuineness,  depth,  and  per- 
vasive   character   of  his    sentiments.      While   his 

*  English  Literature  and  Language,  vol.  ii.  p.  372. 


COWPEK.  219 

poems  have  in  them  much  that  might  be  thought 
didactic,  this  matter  is  given  in  so  natural,  reflect- 
ive, and  yet  more,  in  so  emotional,  a  manner  as 
quite  to  escape  the  censure  that  might  be  implied 
in  the  word.  The  thought  does  not,  predetermined, 
so  much  seek  for  the  image  and  rhythm  wherewith 
to  enforce  itself,  as  flow  out  in  an  incidental  living 
way  from  the  scenes  and  objects  present  to  the 
poetic  imagination.  It  is  not  thought,  but  its  cold 
statement,  or  perceptive  enforcement,  that  poetry 
rejects.  Cowper  has  a  large  measure  of  that  power 
which  brings  interpretation  to  natural  objects,  and 
looks  upon  them  with  a  rapid  interplay  of  sugges- 
tions, uniting  the  visible  to  the  invisible,  and  lend- 
ing to  passing  events  a  scope  otherwise  quite  be- 
yond them.  Especially  is  he  able,  in  the  manner 
of  Wordsworth,  to  see  and  feel  the  twining  and  in- 
tertwining of  facts  and  sentiments,  which  often  so 
closely  bind  the  buoyant  spiritual  mind  to  the  phys- 
ical world,  and  make  this  the  resounding  loom  in 
which  are  woven  with  wonderful  rapidity,  variety, 
and  beauty  the  patterns  of  its  highest  and  noblest 
thoughts.  The  quiet,  earnest,  subtile,  pure,  perva- 
sive mind  of  Cowper  made  him  a  poet  by  the  innate 
force  and  character  of  its  conceptions.  There  is 
everything  in  his  history  to  confirm  the  view,  that  art 
finds  its  germ  in  natural  endowment,  and  nothing 
to  sustain  the  theory,  that  it  can  be  compassed  by 
external  conditions.  Attached  to  one  of  the  least 
mteresting  portions  of  England,  he  was  yet  pre-em- 
inent in  his  love  of  nature,  and  penetrating  obser- 
vation of  it ;  in  close  intercourse  with  the  devotees 


220      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

of  Calvinism,  his  poetry  is  marked  by  sympathy 
and  tenderness  of  sentiment ;  diffident  and  distrust- 
ful beyond  self-control,  his  verse  moves,  as  he  fain 
would  have  it,  with  the  quiet  force  of  a  swan  breast- 
ing the  stream,  seeking  and,  to  the  full,  enjoying 
its  own. 

The  devoutness  of  Cowper  was  too  deep,  di- 
rectly, formally  to  control  his  poems.  '  It  and  they 
grew  together  out  of  his  entire  intellectual  and 
emotional  life.  Religious  sentiment  and  spiritual 
insight  gave  the  same  strong  traits  to  his  produc- 
tions that  they  imparted  to  his  character.  Without 
these  he  would  have  been  another  man  and  another 
poet.  Though  his  religious  views  received  a  severe 
and  melancholy  cast,  which,  concurring  with  natural 
temperament,  led  him  at  times  within  the  limits  of 
insanity,  this  spiritual  vitality  was  not  less  the  nor- 
mal disposition  of  the  man;  and  was  connected 
with  a  volatile  temper  deeply  im.pressible  by  mirth 
and  the  quiet  joys  of  life.  Though  his  nature  made 
answer  most  fully  to  religious  sentiment,  it  was  with 
no  loss  of  the  attachments  which  fall  to  a  lively 
temperament. 

Burns  imparted  to  poetry  an  impulse  at  once 
like  that  given  by  Cowper  and  diverse  from  it. 
Both  were  in  a  high  degree  natural,  spontane- 
ous, sincere ;  but  the  sincerity  of  the  one  was 
that  of  a  melancholy  and  devout  temper,  and 
that  of  the  other  of  a  joyous  and  passionate  one 
Few  characters  so  elicit  sympathy  and  regard, 
passing  into  regret  and  sadness,  as  that  of  Burns. 
With  large  and    generous  impulses    and  an  eager 


BURNS.  221 

relish  for  pleasure,  he  sought  it  impetuously,  and 
missed  it  early  and  almost  utterly.  His  warm, 
emotional  nature  made  him  as  ready  to  impart 
as  to  receive  enjoyment,  yet  his  fatal  haste  and 
disobedience  brought  the  same  bitterness  to 
others  as  to  himself.  His  love  was  as  deadly  as 
the  hate  of  another  man.  The  flowers  he  plante 
lost  their  fragrance,  and  the  blossoms  he  plucked 
distilled  blood  upon  his  fingers.  We  share  some- 
thing of  his  resentment  and  impatience  at  the 
stern,  cold,  cruel  features  of  the  social  life  and 
religious  faith  of  his  country,  yet  we  are  forced 
to  remember,  that  out  of  his  own  more  tender 
sentiments,  as  expressed  in  the  Cotter's  Saturday- 
Night,  there  came  no  strength,  no  power  to 
plant,  to  harvest,  or  to  enjoy  the  good  he  cov- 
eted.    His  own  failure  was  early  and  complete. 

As  a  lyric  poet  Burns  deserves  the  name  of 
great.  In  the  most  essential  qualities  of  this 
form  of  verse  ;  in  fire,  tenderness  and  naturalness, 
none  have  surpassed  him.  The  earnest  devotion 
of  Cowper  united  him  in  meditative  sympathy  to 
nature ;  the  warm  passions  of  Burns  set  him 
aglow  with  human  interests,  and  made  him  the 
poet  of  tender,  heroic,  mirthful,  wilful  impulses. 
He  keenly  felt,  and  uttered  melodiously  what 
he  felt ;  and  by  this  force  of  a  strong,  impetuous 
nature  became  a  fresh,  creative  poet,  working  vigor- 
ously for  the  new  era.  With  lively  and  sympathetic 
feelings  he  entered  into  the  homely  experiences  of 
life  about  him,  both  frolicsome  and  serious,  gay  and 
soml^re;  rendered  them  with  his  own  appreciation, 


222      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

and  colored  them  with  his  own  transfiguring  fancy. 
The  human  sympathies  of  Burns  wrought  Uke  the 
spiritual  sympathies  of  Covvper,  and  put  him,  at 
times,  as  in  the  Mountain  Daisy,  in  living  con- 
cord with  nature. 

The  class  to  which  Burns  belonged,  the  dia- 
lect in  which  he  wrote,  his  limited  education, 
all  lightened  the  weight  of  conventional  influ- 
ences, and  left  him  chiefly  to  the  push  of  his 
own  nature  as  he  produced  his  lyrics,  first  for 
himself,  and  later  for  the  world.  Though  Burns 
stands  at  the  entrance  of  the  new  period,  none 
of  the  great  poets  that  followed  surpassed  him 
in  individuality  of  faculties,  a  freedom  which  yet 
left  him  in  full  mastery  of  a  varied  and  most 
melodious  verse.  Here  again  in  the  life  of 
Burns  we  have  a  large,  constitutional,  original 
element,  which  shaped  itself  into  the  develop- 
ment of  his  times  without  being  governed  by  it. 
Pope  had  been  made  the  subject  of  admiring 
study  by  Burns,  yet  cast  no  reflection  of  him- 
self in  the  dancing,  sparkling,  rollicksome  stream 
of  his  verse. 

We  now  turn,  having  touched  a  few  of  the 
significant  features  of  transition  in  the  works  of  in- 
dividual poets,  to  the  general  forces  which  helped 
to  bring  about  a  new  intellectual  activity,  a  fresh 
era  of  invention.  We  have  referred  to  the  wea- 
riness into  which  art,  mere  art,  finally  falls,  the 
ennui  which  forces  the  spirit  to  some  new 
form  of  activity.  But  this  is  a  negative  rather 
than   a   positive   force,  a    divorce    from    the    past 


INTEREST  IN  EARLY  ENGLISH  POETRY.    223 

rather  than  a  promise  of  the  future.  We  still  need 
to  see  what  awakening  energies,  what  living 
ideas,  were  then  at  large  in  the  intellectual 
world,  to  take  the  guidance  of  a  new  movement, 
and  impart  to  it  impulse. 

A  literary  influence  which  accompanied  and 
indicated  this  change  of  taste  was  an  increase, 
interest  in  early  English  poetry.  The  nation,  weary 
of  the  products  of  classical  criticism,  turned  to  the 
fresh,  wild  fruits  of  its  own  literary  youth,  and 
sought  in  its  early  ballads  the  relish  it  had  lost  in 
didactic  art ;  as  old  age  seeks  to  renew  its  lan- 
guid appetites  with  the  fruits  that  delighted  its 
boyhood.  It  is  always  a  sign  of  health  when  a 
people  is  interested  in  itself,  its  history,  its  art, 
and  the  tendencies  native  to  its  growth.  A 
submission  to  foreign  law,  and  a  sedulous  imi- 
tation of  works  more  or  less  alien  to  the  soil 
and  temper  and  wants  of  a  people,  are  the 
marks  of  flagging  invention,  and  the  precursors 
of  still  farther  decay. 

The  publication,  in  1765,  of  Percy's  Reliques 
of  Ancient  English  Poetry  was  a  leading  and  very 
influential  indication  of  the  wakefulness  of  the 
nation  to  its  own  work.  "  I  do  not  think,"  said 
Wordsworth,  "  that  there  is  an  able  writer  in  verse 
of  the  present  day,  who  would  not  be  proud  to 
acknowledge  his  obligations  to  the  Reliques ;  I 
know  that  it  is  so  with  my  friends;  for  myself  I 
am  happy  to  make  a  public  avowal  of  mine  own." 
Walter  Scott,  who  felt  so  pre-eminently,  and  who 
BO  fully  followed   out,  this    tendency  to  legendary 


224     THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

and  romantic  history,  to  restored  nationalism,  says : 
"  From  this  time,"  the  date  of  his  reading  the 
Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry,  "  the  love 
of  natural  beauty,  more  especially  when  com- 
bined with  ancient  ruins,  or  the  remains  of  our 
fathers'  piety  or  splendour,  became  with  me  an 
insatiable  passion,  which,  if  circumstances  had 
permitted,  I  would  willingly  have  gratified  by 
travelling  over  half  the  globe."  So  ready  and 
inflammable  was  the  material  prepared  for  these 
living  coals,  unraked  from  the  ashes  of  departed 
years.  The  Reliques  were  largely  composed  of 
the  lyrics  of  earlier  and  later  writers.  The  bal- 
lads yielded  the  key-note,  and  then  gave  place  to 
the  melody  of  more  modern  verse,  the  most  free 
and  national  in  its  character.  Lyric  poetry,  less 
ambitious  than  other  forms,  more  close  to  the 
individual  sentiment,  is  wont  to  be  the  refuge  of 
the  most  genuine,  simple  and  passionate  strains ; 
to  be  most  deeply  infused  with  the  national  temper. 
The  impression  made  by  this  work  of  Percy's 
was  confirmed  by  Warton's  History  of  English 
Poetry.  This  history  covers  the  early  years  of  our 
literature  broadly  and  thoroughly,  and  indicates  at 
once  enthusiasm  and  patient  research.  The  awak- 
ened interest  in  the  past  is  also  indicated  by  the 
literary  forgeries  of  the  time.  These  sprang  up 
in  connection  with  the  general  interest  that  attend- 
ed on  historical  research.  Evidently  Macpherson 
and  Chatterton  found  something  in  this  eager  tem- 
per of  the  public  mind  which  prepared  the  way  for 
their  deceptions. 


GERMAN    LITERATURE.  225 

A  second  literary  element,  which  marked  and 
helped  to  cause  the  shifting  spirit  of  the  period,  was 
the  incipient  influence  of  German  literature.  Im- 
mediate entrance  was  given  to  it  through  Walter 
Scott,  and  still  more,  through  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge. Coleridge  was  well  fitted  for  the  reception 
both  of  its  philosophy  and  poetry.  His  methods  of 
thought  concurred  with  his  knowledge  to  render 
German  influence  powerful  with  him.  From  this 
date  onward  German  literature  has  been  gaining 
ground  in  England  and  America,  and  has  for  many 
years  been  quite  the  most  vigorous  of  European 
forces.  England,  France  and  Germany,  together 
supreme  in  philosophy,  science  and  art,  hold  toward 
each  other  independent  and  diverse  positions.  The 
artistic  element,  in  its  more  separate  and  complete 
form,  belongs  to  France.  The  active,  the  brilliant, 
the  formal,  in  social  organization,  in  social  inter- 
course, in  criticism,  in  creation,  are  found  with  the 
French ;  the  sluggish,  practical,  powerful  and  use- 
ful rest  with  the  English ;  while  to  the  German 
belongs  the  theoretical,  the  speculative,  the  pro- 
found, the  laborious.  The  three  occupy  in  refer- 
ence to  each  other  the  points  of  a  triangle.  For 
the  English  to  draw  near  the  French  is  to  be  quick- 
ened in  execution,  but  to  lose  weight ;  to  be  made 
critical,  captious  and  superficial :  for  them  to  draw 
near  the  Germans  is  to  deepen  and  enlarge  inquiry; 
is  to  be  renewed  in  thought,  and  enlivened  in  in- 
vention. 

Taine  reproaches  the  English  as  lacking  philos- 
ophy.     The  reproach  is  not  just,  and,  if  it  were, 


226      THE    rillLOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

would  come  but  poorly  from  a  Frenchman.  The 
philosophical  tendency  is  not  as  controlling  in  Eng- 
land as  it  has  been  in  Germany ;  nor  is  it  likely  to 
flash  out  in  as  extreme,  rapid,  and  perchance  brilliant 
speculation  as  in  France  ;  yet,  as  we  shall  later 
show,  as  settled,  consistent,  continuous  and  fruitful 
a  philosophical  movement  has  fallen  to  England  as 
to  either  of  the  other  two.  The  philosophy  of  Eng- 
land shows  a  history  far  more  independent  than 
does  that  of  P'rance,  and  one,  we  believe,  whose 
results  have  kept  much  closer  to  the  truth  than  the 
speculations  of  either  France  or  Germany. 

It  is  now  urged,  and  with  a  measure  of  correct- 
ness, that  the  scientific  temper  is  one  of  relative 
indifference  to  the  bearing  of  the  results  reached  by 
inquiry  ;  that  it  schools  itself  to  accept  one  result  as 
freely  as  another.  As  against  controlling  preju- 
dice, this  claim  must  be  granted,  not,  we  think, 
as  against  every  cautious,  constitutional  tendency. 
The  English,  as  contrasted  with  the  Germans,  pur- 
sue philosophy  distrustfully,  with  a  predisposed  and 
Interested  spirit.  Questions  of  religion,  of  society, 
and  of  government  are  so  present  to  their  specula- 
tions, that  they  are  always  forecasting  the  issues 
and  tendencies  of  a  theory,  suffering  practical  exi- 
gencies to  react  upon  it,  and  turning  aside  from 
troublesome  conclusions.  It  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  fruits  of  their  philosophy  have  for  this 
reason  been  less  valuable.  Additional  caution,  re- 
peated consideration  by  various  minds,  a  stern  re- 
sistance to  extreme,  erratic  tendencies,  have  been 
the  result,  and  have  made  the  gains  of  thought,  if 


THE    PRACTICAL    TEST.  227 

slower,  less  bold  and  captivating,  more  safe  and 
reliable.  The  German  mind,  from  its  intellectual 
freedom,  from  this  very  divorce  of  its  speculative 
processes  from  practical  questions,  its  separation 
from  the  interests  of  the  hour, — for  in  Germany  one's 
philosophy  is  especially  disconnected  from  his  so 
cial,  political  and  religious  relations, — has  lost  some 
of  the  balance  and  steadiness  which  the  retardation 
of  immediate  and  material  interests  would  have  im- 
posed upon  it.  Moreover,  the  practical  relations  of 
a  theory  do  afford  a  partial,  even  though  it  be  an 
inadequate,  test  of  its  correctness.  The  German 
mind,  with  all  its  subtlety,  breadth  of  knowledge, 
and  boldness  of  inquiry,  seems  not  especially  well 
fitted  to  weigh  evidence,  and  to  reach  reliable  con- 
clusions. A  wild,  dreamy  speculation  sweeps  in 
upon  it  from  this  side,  and  is  shortly  followed  by 
another  as  erratic  from  that  side.  It  is  impossible 
for  any  of  us  to  preserve  an  ideal  attitude  of  indiffer- 
ence to  evidence,  and  to  be  prepared  to  weigh  it  ex- 
actly and  completely  as  it  is  offered.  If  the  thoughts 
were  thus  to  loosen  themselves,  to  drop  the  great 
burden  of  practical  issues  and  previous  conclusions 
that  sober  them,  they  would  be  seen  to  play  fitfully, 
like  idle  weathercocks,  rather  than  to  mark  deep 
undercurrents,  like  anchored  buoys.  The  new  as 
new,  the  fresh  theory  because  it  is  the  last  theory, 
our  thoughts  as  our  own  have  a  peculiar  hold  on  the 
mind,  and  should  be  met  by  the  inertia  of  old  ten- 
dencies. An  index  that  plays  with  some  friction 
shows  the  stronger  forces,  and  escapes  the  fluctua- 
tions of  lighter  ones.     An  Englishman  can  hardly 


228       THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

be  as  extreme  and  visionary  as  it  is  possible  for 
a  German  to  be,  and  because  he  has  more  of  this 
national  habit  of  mind  upon  him,  feels  more  of  its 
conservative  tendencies.  Now  this  inertia  of  a 
nation,  putting  to  perpetual  use  its  knowledge,  does 
often  embarrass  philosophy,  but  often  saves  it  also ; 
makes  it  stupid  at  times,  it  is  true,  but  always  ren- 
ders it  serious,  and  faithful  to  whatever  has  been 
entrusted  to  it. 

The  English,  as  contrasted  with  either  Germans 
or  Frenchmen,  owe  much  to  their  political  organiza- 
tion, to  their  compact,  slowly  developing,  social  and 
religious  life,  by  which  every  question  assumes  a 
national  bearing,  and  is  kept  at  all  hazards  within 
the  limits  of  safety.  If  much  is  due  to  the  boldness 
of  individual  thought,  much  also  is  due  to  the  slow, 
half-instinctive  movement  of  a  nation,  as  it  creeps 
hesitatingly  on  in  its  organic  development.  This 
judgment  of  every  theory  by  its  power  to  play 
safely  into  the  daily  facts  of  life  is  a  wholesome  re- 
straint on  erratic  speculation,  is  allied  in  philosophy 
and  religion,  in  the  checks  it  affords,  to  those  of- 
fered in  science  by  the  special  phenomena  under 
discussion. 

At  this  second  creative  period  in  her  literary 
history,  England  began  to  come  in  contact  with  the 
freer,  bolder,  more  speculative  mind  of  Germany,  and 
to  be  awakened  by  it.  The  English  make  awkward 
disciples  of  the  French,  as  a  slow  practical  person 
appears  poorly  in  the  presence  of  one  audacious, 
quick-witted  and  accomplished.  They  unite  more 
hopefully  to  the  obscure,  patient  and  intellectually 


CONTRASTS    OF    NATIONAL    CHARACTER.         229 

productive  Germans ;  turning  readily  to  an  imme- 
diate purpose,  and  presenting  on  their  valuable  side, 
the  fruits  of  these  diligent  laborers.  The  practical 
strikes  hands  advisedly  with  the  theoretical,  and  is 
sure  of  the  larger  half  of  the  common  harvest. 
The  ore  that  is  brought  to  the  mine's  mouth  is  thus 
quickly  reduced,  and  made  marketable. 

In  a  characterization  of  nations,  only  a  general 
and  partial  truth  is  aimed  at,  or  can  be  reached. 
Individual  exceptions  will  spring  up  on  all  sides. 
England,  France,  Germany,  have  each  many  citi- 
zens who  share  the  national  virtues,  and  in  large 
measure  escape  the  national  faults.  Certainly  the 
individual  never  appears  to  better  advantage  than 
when,  availing  himself  to  the  full  of  the  nation's  re- 
sources, he  yet  tempers  them  all  to  a  broader  and 
more  catholic  spirit ;  the  Englishman  adding  to  his 
own  firm-footedness  the  nimble  celerity  of  the 
Frenchman,  and  the  sustained  strength  of  the  Ger- 
man ;  or  the  German  enlivening  his  thoughtful  path 
with  the  vivacity  of  French  insight,  and  bending  it 
to  the  sober,  serious  purposes  of  his  Saxon  kins- 
man ;  or  the  Frenchman,  casting  the  brilliancy  of 
his  national  spirit  over  the  solid  substance  in  char- 
acter of  the  other  two.  It  is  also  to  be  remembered, 
that  national  tendencies  are  always  the  most  clearly 
shown  in  social,  political  and  religious  questions, 
and  in  philosophy  and  criticism  as  they  bear  upon 
these.  In  sciertce  the  conditions  of  progress  are 
more  fixed  and  independent,  and  personal  bias  is 
less  influential.  All  nations  are  more  nearly  one 
oh   those  topics  which  pertain  less  immediately  to 


230      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITEKATUKE. 

character.  The  order  of  European  influence  has 
been  Italian,  French,  German ;  and  the  long  arm 
and  strong  hand  now  rest  with  Germany. 

This  creative  period  was  also  profoundly  affected 
by  political  causes.  The  movement  toward  religious 
liberty  which  had  been  so  efficient  a  force  in  the 
Elizabethan  period  had  at  length,  under  favoring 
circumstances,  issued  in  an  equally  decided  and 
extended  claim  for  political  liberty.  The  religious 
precedents  and  drift  of  the  past  had  not  been  more 
sharply  questioned,  nor  its  conclusions  more  broadly 
denied  on  general  principles  by  the  Protestant  Ref- 
ormation, than  were  the  opinions  pertaining  to  so- 
ciety and  government  by  the  American  Revolution. 
This  revolution,  while  favored  by  circumstances, 
had  not  been  their  blind  result.  It  had  not  been 
made  ready  by  mere  physical  forces ;  with  these 
there  had  been  a  steady  ripening  of  opinions,  a 
practical  use  and  theoretical  proclamation  of  the 
principles  of  political  freedom.  This  revolution  was 
not  allowed,  therefore,  to  transpire  in  the  dark,  its 
underlying  truths  obscured  by  the  turmoil  of  con- 
flict, or  lost  sight  of  in  the  interests  of  the  hour.  It 
was  ripened  by  convictions,  and  accompanied  by 
the  clearest  announcement  of  its  justifying  reasons. 
Its  social  bearings  were  thus  much  more  important 
than  its  immediate  political  ones.  Though  it  was 
the  starting  point  of  a  great  nation,  it  helped  to  set 
in  motion,  and  gave  a  permanent,  unmistakable 
form  to  social  truths,  which  overleap  all  national 
bounds  and  carry  discussion  and  commotion  every- 
where. 


RIGHTS.  231 

Questions  of  government  and  social  organiza- 
tion have,  from  that  hour  to  the  present,  been  the 
themes  of  the  most  earnest,  enlarged,  varied  and 
urgent  consideration.  The  destiny  of  the  leading 
civilized  nations  has  been  rescued,  in  part,  from  the 
blind  flow  of  physical  forces,  from  the  awards  of 
battle,  and  shaped  by  a  conscious  and  ever  return- 
ing struggle  for  enlarged  rights,  for  social  gains  to 
be  secured  and  fortified  under  new  organizations. 

England  was  compelled  to  take  a  prominent 
part  in  the  practical,  passing  solution  of  these  prob- 
lems. True  to  her  history,  she  was  divided  in  sen- 
timent against  herself,  throwing  her  physical  weight 
chiefly  upon  one  side,  and  her  moral  weight  largely 
upon  the  other.  The  American  Revolution  was 
followed  by  the  French  Revolution,  in  part  begot- 
ten, and  certainly  hastened  by  it.  The  first  kindled 
those  latent  tendencies  which  wildly  flamed  out  in 
the  second,  on  a  broader  field,  in  the  midst  of  more 
valuable  and  critical  interests,  and  with  less  of  the 
restraint  either  of  reason  or  surrounding  circum- 
stances. Questions  of  rights  thus  received  at  once 
an  emphasis  which  did  not  allow  them  to  be  set 
aside.  Here  again  England  was  a  leading  belliger- 
ant,  was  driven  by  her  sluggish,  jealous  and  conser- 
vative temper  into  an  extreme  attitude  of  resistance, 
out  of  harmony,  at  least  in  the  outset,  with  her 
own  best  sentiment,  and  finally  covered  up  and 
made  admissible  only  by  the  extravagance  of  the 
French,  and  that  blind  martial  mania  of  theirs 
which  slowly  resolved  the  entire  controversy  into 
one  of  conquest. 


232      THE    I'HILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

We  can  hardly  in  our  country  and  in  our  time, 
when  questions  of  government,  and  our  rights 
under  it,  are  in  constant  discussion,  and  are  every 
day  finding  an  easy  and  safe  settlement,  appre- 
ciate the  shock  which  these  inquiries  brought  at 
the  beginning,  before  men  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  them,  or  society  supple  under  them ; 
when  they  carried  with  them  the  imminent  danger 
of  such  bloody  crises,  and  half-fruitless  struggles, 
as  those  of  the  French  Revolution. 

In  these  political  and  social  conflicts,  the 
second  brood  of  the  Spirit  of  Liberty,  we  have  a 
force  fitted  to  stir  the  mind  of  England  scarcely 
less  deeply,  and  quite  as  broadly  as  those  religious 
rights  which  called  forth  its  earlier  strength.  The 
leading  minds  of  the  incoming  period  were  borne 
rapidly  forward  by  these  incentives.  Johnson  re- 
sisted the  progressive  spirit.  He  personified  the 
stubborn  English  temper,  slow  to  acquire  anything 
new,  and  yet  slower  to  part  with  anything  old ; 
that  accepts  with  composure  the  revolutions  of 
the  past,  but  has  no  sympathy  with  those  of  the 
present.  Burke,  less  timid,  favored  for  a  time 
revolution,  and  lost  sympathy  with  it  only  in  its 
excesses. 

Coleridge,  Southey,  Wordsworth,  were  carried 
away  with  the  first  enthusiasm  of  liberty,  and 
slowly  returned  to  a  conservative  temper  as  ex- 
perience, reflection,  constitutional  tendencies,  or 
disastrous  revolution  restored  to  each  the  balance 
of  thought. 

Shelley,  Byron,  Landor  remained  more  extreme 


REVOLUTION.  233 

in  temper,  Shelley  especially  drank  to  intoxication 
of  the  glowing  promises  of  speedy,  social  regene- 
ration. All  the  great  minds  of  the  period  en- 
countered at  once  these  questions  of  liberty,  and 
were  aroused  to  fresh  activity,  strange  hopes,  or 
sudden  alarms  by  them.  It  is  to  be  observed, 
however,  that  those  somewhat  secondary  in  ability 
were  alone  shaken  from  permanent  composure ; 
while  the  larger  minded  and  more  sedate  ones 
came  slowly  to  receive  the  promises  of  revolu- 
tion with  abatement,  and  to  cling  to  the  old,  as 
at  least  presenting  the  soil  out  of  which  the 
new  must  grow,  and  by  which  it  must  be  nour- 
ished. The  slow  organic  evolution  of  society 
held  the  thoughts  of  those  sobered  by  experi- 
ence, and  taught  the  continuity  of  events,  as 
against  all  violent  and  precipitate  change.  There 
is  very  little  difficulty  in  society  that  is  simply 
one  of  organization,  and  can  be  sufficiently 
met  by  constitutional  shifts.  The  wise  caught 
the  lessons  of  the  French  convulsions  before  the 
revolutionary  drama  was  half  closed,  while  the 
enthusiastic  were  left  to  misunderstand  events, 
to  look  wearily  about  for  the  reasons  of  failure 
when  the  last  sad  scene  was  over. 

In  philosophy  and  theology,  the  influences 
at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  were  vig- 
orous and  progressive.  Science  was  rapidly  en- 
larging its  acquisitions  in  all  directions.  The 
skepticism  of  Hume  was  calling  forth  a  new 
school  of  Scotch  metaphysicians.  The  critical,  ma- 
terialistic, utilitarian  tendency  of  English   thought 


234    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

was  meeting  with  farther  enlargement  by  such  vig- 
orous men  as  James  Mill  and  Jeremy  Bentham. 

Coleridge  was  a  zealous  party  to  these  in- 
quiries, and  gave  new  emphasis  to  the  truths 
of  our  higher,  our  intuitive  nature.  By  his  ex- 
tended influence,  especially  through  the  medium 
of  conversation,  he  was  able  to  carry  these  dis- 
cussions into  literary  circles,  and  quicken  and 
deepen  interest  in  the  profound  questions  of 
our  being.  The  practical  religious  life  of  the 
nation,  strengthened  by  the  zeal  of  many  able 
and  devout  men,  held  the  grounds  of  faith  with 
stubborn  resistance  to  the  skeptical  philosophy 
of  the  time,  and  with  the  changing  methods  of 
defense  which  the  advance  of  inquiry  made  ne- 
cessary. Since  the  time  of  Locke  there  has  been 
no  material  cessation  in  the  conflicts  in  the  Eng- 
lish mind  between  science,  philosophy  and  religion. 
The  later  lines  of  struggle,  however,  those  which 
rest  back  on  the  reason,  the  intuitive  nature  of 
man,  were  beginning  to  be  more  clearly  taken,  as 
this  second  creative  period  came  forward ;  and 
helped  to  enlarge  and  deepen  its  spiritual  impulses. 

The  conflict  was  also  made  more  intense  by 
a  reflex  wave  of  English  philosophy  returning  to 
it  through  the  French.  The  tendencies  to  ma- 
terialism latent  in  the  doctrines  of  Locke  had 
been  more  rapidly  and  fearlessly  unfolded  in 
France  than  in  England,  and  had  there  taken 
their  secondary  form  of  religious  unbelief  and 
revolutionar}^  social  theories.  The  celerity  and 
recklessness    of   the    French    mind   enabled    it   to 


CONVERGING  TENDENCILS.  235 

give  back,  as  the  startling  infidelity  of  Voltaire, 
and  the  destructive  socialism  of  Rousseau,  what 
it  received  as  a  safe,  quiet  denial  of  innate  ideas. 
So  differently  do  the  same  seeds  of  thought  ripen 
in  distinct  national  soils !  On  this  period  were 
converging  the  political  revolutions  which  sprang 
from  Puritanism,  and  those  quickened  by  the  fe- 
verish theories  of  French  materialism.  If  the 
sober-minded  were  thrown  forward  by  the  one, 
they  were  quickly  flung  backward  by  the  other. 
On  this  period  were  ccnverging  the  tenacious, 
slowly-progressive  theology  of  the  English  mind, 
its  deep-seated,  half-unconscious  materialism,  al- 
ways prone  to  shirk  and  deny  its  own  corol- 
laries ;  the  abstruse  theories  of  Germany,  too  re- 
mote to  be-  to  many  either  the  grounds  of  be- 
lief or  unbelief ;  and  the  extreme,  startling  and 
varied  social  and  religious  skepticism  of  the 
French,  alarming  the  most  tender  and  deep 
sympathies  of  the  soul.  It  is  not  strange  that 
many  minds,  so  played  upon,  became  erratic, 
and  that  retreat  followed  quick  upon  advance. 
Thus  the  century  opened,  a  pregnant  spring- 
time, in  which  the  useful,  the  beautiful  and  the 
worthless  struggled  together  for  sun-light. 

Every  quarter  of  the  civilized  world  was 
coming  to  be  subject  to  intense  influences  from 
every  other.  Assertions,  which  went  forth  as 
harmless  speculations,  came  back  as  revolution- 
ary frenzy.  Nothing  was  at  rest,  nothing  un- 
assailable ;  nor  had  men  yet  learned  the  value 
of    revolution,   the  power   and   worth   of    a   mere 


236      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

change  of  organization.  The  hopes  of  men  were 
as  extravagant  as  their  thoughts  were  feverish, 
and  they  were  ready  in  all  directions,  to  make 
short  roads  to  the  millennium,  and  take  by  vio- 
ence  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  On  this  religi- 
ious  and  political  ferment  the  century  opened, 
and  set  itself  to  the  task  of  eliminating  its  false- 
hoods and  embodying  its  truths. 

The  interlacing  of  different  tendencies,  the 
striking  modifications  which  national  and  indi- 
vidual character  brought  to  the  same  fundamen- 
tal principles,  are  seen  in  the  social,  political 
philosophy  of  Locke  as  expanded  in  England, 
in  America,  in  France  ;  and  also  in  the  posi- 
tion of  free,  protestant  Holland,  sheltering  in 
the  seventeenth  century  the  Puritans  of  Eng- 
land, and  in  the  eighteenth  the  skeptics  of 
France ;  giving  its  types,  now  to  an  English 
Bible,  now  to  the  Social  Contract  of  Rousseau ; 
and  becoming  at  length  the  "great  printing  press 
of  France."  *  It  fell  to  this  century  to  decide 
between  nation  and  nation,  statement  and  state- 
ment ;  and  to  discover  that  truth  is  truth  only 
as  it  is  wrought  into  coherent,  social  and  in- 
dividual life. 

*  Rousseau,  vol.  ii.  p.  57. 


LECTURE  X. 

Tlie  First  and  Second  Creative  Periods  Contrasted. — Tht  Weight 
to  be  Attaclied  to  Individual  Influence,  Spencer,  Taine.-— Scott 
— B}Ton. — Coleridge. — Wordsworth. — Shelley. 

The  second  creative  period,  the  first  thirty 
years  of  the  present  century,  finds  but  one  rival 
era  in  our  literature.  In  this,  as  in  that,  revolu- 
tionary forces  were  at  work,  and  the  minds  of  men 
were  awakened  by  various  and  powerful  causes. 
As  then,  though  foreign  influences  were  active, 
native,  national  tendencies  were  pre-eminent.  En- 
gland, in  the  first  instance,  stood  proudly  on  the  de- 
fensive, the  champion  of  Protestantism  ;  and  now, 
at  least  as  she  deemed  it,  of  national  constitutional 
development.  No  continental  wars  have  been  to 
England  more  significant  than  the  struggles  with 
Philip  II.  and  Napoleon  I.  In  each  instance,  she 
awaited  a  great  invasion ;  and  in  each  the  conflict 
of  arms  was  united  with  one  of  opinions. 

This  second  period  was  equally  fruitful  with  the 
first,  and  more  varied  in  its  productions.  It  does 
not,  indeed,  reach  quite  the  elevation  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan era  ;  it  lies  under  the  shadow  of  one  or  two 
of  the  great  men  of  the  earlier  age  ;  but,  this  admit- 
ted, it  shows  a  more  diversified,  vigorous  and  perva- 
sive literary  activity  than  even  that  first  outburst  of 
life.  In  it,  as  in  every  great  literary  period,  poetry 
was  clearly  pre-eminent,  and  this,  notwithstanding 


238     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

the  fact  that  prose,  in  an  unbroken  and  enlarged 
volume,  came  down  from  the  previous  time.  In- 
quisitive, laborious,  artistic  prose  multiplied  in  all 
directions,  and  added  to  its  previous  forms  its  most 
careful  essays  and  best  novels.  Criticism,  especi- 
ally in  the  review,  the  magazine,  the  journal,  began 
that  prodigious  productiveness  which  has  at  length 
filled  every  portion  of  our  atmosphere  with  its  float- 
ing spores,  springing  up  as  moss  and  lichens  on 
every  stalwart  trunk ;  or  as  the  literary  must  and 
mildew  of  the  time  on  every  decaying  thing. 

Notwithstanding  this  unchecked  power  of  prose, 
working  for  science  or  art,  for  use  or  pleasure,  as  it 
was  able,  poetry  was  the  distinguishing  feature  of 
the  time,  and  this  under  its  best  forms.  Narrative, 
dramatic,  lyric  poetry  prevailed,  and  when  the  di- 
dactic element  was  present,  it  took  so  meditative, 
intuitive,  emotional  a  form  as  to  impart  a  new,  more 
spiritual,  more  profoundly  poetic  temper  to  our  lit- 
erature. 

We  now  turn,  having  spoken  of  the  character 
of  the  period  and  the  general  forces  at  work  in 
it,  to  the  individuals  who  fixed  its  precise  type, 
and  made  it  exactly  what  it  was — to  Scott,  Byron, 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Shelley.  There  is  earnest 
discussion  as  to  what  shall  be  done  with  the  indi- 
vidual in  a  philosophy  of  history.  Some  are  willing, 
as  Spencer,  so  to  magnify  the  aggregate  of  external 
conditions  ;  the  influence  of  climate,  race,  cultiva- 
tion, the  accumulated  products  of  descent ;  the 
precise  circumstances  of  the  time  and  pla.:e  on 
which   he    has    fallen ;    the    social    movement  into 


THE    INDIVIDUAL.  239 

which  he  is  educated,  as  to  leave  him  hardly  more 
than  a  waif  on  a  mighty  current,  whose  direction 
and  force  he  may  indicate,  but  can  do  very  little  to 
control.  Others,  with  much  less  reason,  far  more 
superficial  in  observation,  are  struck  with  the  prom- 
inent part  that  a  few  great  men  take  in  affairs,  and 
are  ready  to  look  upon  them  as  the  chief  forces  a 
work,  as  giving  direction  to  events  by  their  single 
volition.     To  these  Spencer  makes  answer  : 

"  If,  not  stopping  at  the  explanation  of  social 
progress  as  due  to  the  great  man,  we  go  back  a 
step,  and  ask.  Whence  comes  the  great  man  ?  we 
find  that  the  theory  breaks  down  completely.  •••■  * 
Along  with  the  whole  generation  of  which  he 
forms  a  minute  part ;  along  with  its  institutions, 
language,  knowledge,  manners,  and  its  multitudi- 
nous arts  and  appliances,  he  is  the  resultant  of 
an  enormous  aggregate  of  causes  that  have  been 
co-operating  for  ages.  *  *  If,  disregarding 
those  accumulated  results  of  experience,  which 
current  proverbs  and  the  generalizations  of  psy- 
chologists alike  express,  you  suppose  that  a  New- 
ton might  be  born  in  a  Hottentot  family,  that  a 
Milton  might  spring  up  among  the  Andamanese, 
that  a  Howard  or  a  Clarkson  might  have  Fiji  pa- 
rents, then  you  may  proceed  with  facility  to  ex- 
plain social  progress  as  caused  by  the  actions  of 
great  men.  But  if  all  biological  science,  enforcing 
all  popular  belief,  convinces  you  that  by  no  possi- 
bility will  an  Aristotle  come  from  a  father  and 
mother  with  facial  angles  of  fifty  degrees  ;  and  that 
out  of  a  tribe  of  cannibals,  whose  chorus  in  prepa- 


240    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLiSH    LITERATURE. 

ration  for  a  feast  of  human  flesh  is  a  kind  of  rhyth- 
mical roaring  there'  is  not  the  remotest  chance  of 
a  Beethoven  arising ;  then  you  must  admit  the  gen- 
esis of  the  great  man  depends  on  a  long  series  of 
complex  influences  which  has  produced  the  race  in 
which  he  appears,  and  the  social  state  into  which 
that  race  has  slowly  grown.  If  it  be  a  fact  that  the 
great  man  may  modify  his  nation  in  its  structure 
and  actions,  it  is  also  a  fact  that  there  must  have 
been  those  antecedent  modifications  constituting 
national  progress  before  he  could  be  evolved.  Be- 
fore he  can  re-make  his  society,  his  society  must 
make  him.  So  that  all  those  changes  of  which  he 
is  the  proximate  initiator  have  their  chief  causes  in 
the  generations  which  give  him  birth.  If  there  is 
to  be  anything  like  a  real  explanation  of  these 
changes,  it  must  be  sought  in  the  aggregate  of  con- 
ditions out  of  which  both  he  and  they  have  arisen."* 
This  presentation  of  Spencer  has  force  as  against 
the  limited  view  of  his  adversaries,  and  is  to  be  pre- 
ferred to  the  flippant  theory  of  Taine,  which  refers 
so  much  of  the  history  and  character  of  Englishmen 
to  external  conditions.  "  They  are,"  says  he,  "never 
comfortable  in  their  country,  they  have  to  strive 
continually  against  cold  or  rain.  They  cannot  live 
there  carelessly,  lying  under  a  lovely  sky,  in  a  sul- 
try and  clear  atmosphere,  their  eyes  filled  with  the 
noble  beauty  and  happy  serenity  of  the  land.  They 
must  work  to  live ;  be  attentive,  exact ;  close  and 
repair  their  houses,  wade  boldly  through  the  mud 
behind  the  plough,  light  their  lamps  in  their  shops 

*  Popular  Science  Monthly. 


TAINE.  241 

during  the  day.  Their  climate  imposes  endless  in- 
convenience, and  exacts  endless  endurance.  Hence 
arise  melancholy  and  the  idea  of  duty.  Man  nat- 
urally thinks  of  life  as  a  battle,  oftener  of  black 
death  which  closes  this  deadly  show,  and  leads  so 
many  plumed  and  disorderly  processions  to  the  si- 
lence and  eternity  of  the  grave.  All  this  visible 
world  is  vain ;  there  is  nothing  true  but  human  vir- 
tue,— the  courageous  energy  with  which  man  attains 
to  self-command,  the  generous  energy  with  which 
he  employs  himself  in  the  service  of  others.  On 
this  view  he  fixes  his  eyes ;  they  pierce  through 
worldly  gauds,  neglect  sensual  joys  to  attain  this. 
By  such  internal  action  the  ideal  is  displaced ;  a 
new  source  of  action  springs  up — the  idea  of  right' 
eousness."  ■••'•■ 

It  would  seem  strange  that  the  unbearable  mud 
and  weather,  in  themselves  not  less  abundant  in 
earlier  than  later  times,  left  the  Saxons  so  blood- 
thirsty a  brood,  such  lawless  revellers,  and  yet 
wrought  righteousness  in  the  English.  If  France 
lacks  conscience  in  lacking  clouds,  misses  reflection 
in  missing  the  dismal  retinue  of  storms,  the  English 
may  indeed  congratulate  themselves  on  elemental 
conflicts  which,  displacing  those  of  men,  leave  the 
streets  of  their  capital  unstained  with  blood,  and 
beat  out  the  germs  of  hasty,  cruel  and  futile  revolu- 
tion. We  should  hardly  have  looked  for  so  much 
moral  power  in  a  drizzling  rain,  but  if  it  be  what 
Taine  thinks  it,  we  may  well  compose  ourselves  to 
its  frequent  return.     On  the  whole,  we  accept  the 

*  History  of  English  Literature,  vol.  i.  p.  lOl. 
II 


242     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

philosophy  of  the  Englishman,  laboring  though  he 
does  under  the  epithet  "unphilosophical,"  as  against 
this  ready  theory  of  the  Frenchman, 

The  truth  would  seem  to  be,  that,  setting  aside 
foreign  forces  often  very  influential,  a  nation's 
growth  in  kind  and  degree  is  determined  by  exter- 
nal conditions  of  climate,  soil,  position ;  by  consti- 
tutional national  character  and  general  cultivation, 
accumulated  and  transmitted  in  physical  and  intel- 
lectual and  moral  descent ;  and  by  individuals. 
Which  of  these  three  is  the  more  controlling  it  may 
not  be  easy  to  decide,  nor  do  they  always  maintain 
toward  each  other  the  same  ratios  of  force.  As 
national  character  becomes  vigorous,  external  con- 
ditions are  cast  into  the  background.  It  is  only  in 
the  earlier,  the  incipient  stages  of  growth,  that  these 
seem  to  have  a  decisive  control,  and  then  over  the 
direction  rather  than  over  the  degree  of  activity. 
They  constitute  the  conditions  of  necessity,  and 
doors  of  opportunity,  which  in  the  beginning  com- 
pel and  invite  action,  but  which,  if  growth  follows, 
are  soon  overmastered  by  the  forces  which  it  sup- 
'  plies.  The  English  are  now  commercial  by  a 
stronger  fact  than  the  possession  of  harbors. 

In  striving  to  strike  the  balance  of  power  be- 
tween the  nation  and  the  individual,  between  its 
combined  movement  as  controlling  its  personal  life, 
and  its  personal  life  as  shaping  and  reshaping 
its  combined  movement,  we  are  to  bear  in  mind, 
that  the  two  agencies  are  so  interlaced  as  to  be 
inseparable  in  their  action.  The  individual  worker, 
the  great  man,   holds   both    elements    in    himself; 


THE    INDIVIDUAL.  243 

he  adds  the  personal  type  to  the  national  type, 
and  gives  new  efficiency  to  the  general  bias  by  the 
individual  bent  of  soul  that  he  brings  to  it.  If  it  be 
true,  as  Spencer  says,  that  before  he,  the  man  of 
genius,  can  remake  society,  society  n>ust  make  him, 
it  is  also  true,  that  when  he  is  actually  at  work  on 
society,  his  efficiency  is  due  more  to  what  he  brings 
to  the  common  stock  of  qualities,  than  to  these 
stock-qualities  as  held  by  him  ;  more  to  the  moral 
altitude  given  him  by  personal  endowments  above 
the  table-land  of  national  character,  than  to  the 
height  of  these  plains  themselves,  whereon  are 
mustered  the  nation.  It  is  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  his  own  supremacy  that  give  him  dominion, 
though  this  dominion  is  to  be  expended  in  actual 
work  on  the  level  of  the  faculties  which  belong  to 
his  race. 

These  two  forces,  the  race-force  and  the  person- 
al force,  mutually  limit  each  other.  If  genius  is 
conditioned  for  its  quality  to  the  nation  to  which  it 
belongs,  the  nation  is  also  conditioned  upon  the 
presence  of  men  of  genius  to  express,  intensify,  and 
make  effective  in  growth  the  national  strength.  If 
talent,  for  its  efficiency,  is  dependent  on  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  state  of  those  with  whom  it 
labors,  so  are  these,  in  turn,  dependent  on  their 
leaders  for  the  full  realization  of  their  next  step  of 
progress.  The  nation  and  the  individual  grow  to- 
gether, and  are,  therefore,  in  instant  living  inter- 
play. Each  is  what  it  is  through  the  other,  and 
neither  can  hold  independent  ground.  If  we  wish 
critically  to  estimate  their  claims,  we  shall  be    able 


244    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

to  do  it  best,  not  by  watching  the  erratic,  brilliant 
career  of  genius,  to  whom  all  forces  seem  second- 
ary ;  nor  by  turning  to  the  slow,  irresistible  steps  of 
national  growth,  which,  in  the  steady  progress  of 
centuries,  sinks  into  seeming  insignificance  the 
individuals  who  have  been  partakers  in  it ;  but  by 
more  carefully  observing  the  momentary  interplay 
of  national  and  private  life,  by  which  the  one  is 
slowly  transmuted  into  the  other. 

In  this  common  growth  the  individual  is  always 
primary.  He  alone  thinks,  he  alone  advances  with 
a  self-sufficing  force.  Take  the  nation  at  any  stage 
of  progress,  early  or  late  ;  it  must  be  gotten  beyond 
that  stage  by  the  new  views,  the  discoveries,  inven- 
tions, prowess  of  persons.  It  will  remain  inert  till 
some  one  man,  or  class  of  men,  move,  pioneer  the 
way,  and  teach  others  to  follow.  So  all  progress  has 
been  achieved.  The  growing  point  is  in  every  case 
the  individual.  The  position  he  shall  start  from  is 
determined  for  him  by  the  nation,  that  is  by  previous 
individual  workers,  the  men  of  genius  and  talent 
that  have  gone  before  him  ;  but  the  next  step  of 
progress,  for  himself  and  the  nation,  he  must  take. 
The  individual,  therefore,  is  always  primary,  initial, 
the  seat  of  living  activity  ;  while  the  nation  is  sec- 
ondary, residuary,  receptive,  the  trunk-growth,  or, 
as  in  the  ^coral,  the  rock-growth,  left  behind.  The 
terminal  buds  on  a  tree  owe  their  position  to  the 
organic  development  that  has  preceded  them  ;  but 
this  growth  has  all  been  initiated  by  them,  as  must 
be  all  farther  growth.  All  that  is  really  additive, 
then,  is  due  to    the   individual,  while  preservation. 


MEN    OF    GENIUS.  245 

continuity,  the  conditions  of  increase,  come  from 
the  nation.  The  nation  is  the  storehouse  wherein 
are  treasured  the  fruits  of  individual  labor. 

In  reference  to  society,  to  the  nation,  the  men 
of  genius,  so  far  as  they  have  genius,  are  supernat- 
ural forces,  that  is,  forces  unexplained  by  their 
antecedents.  As  men  normally  endowed  with  the 
national  constitution,  tastes,  disposition,  they  are 
natural  products,  sufficiently  explained  by  the  cir- 
cumstances of  their  birth.  In  the  conditions  under 
which  their  powers  are  expended,  the  work  that  falls 
to  them,  and  the  general  limits  of  its  efficiency,  they 
are  also  included  in  the  national  development.  But 
in  so  far  as  they  have  genius,  in  so  far  as  they  tran- 
scend the  national  type,  as  they  are  a  peculiar  and 
personal  power,  they  remain  unexplained,  are  an 
original  and  independent  source  of  influence.  We 
have  no  recipe  for  the  production  of  a  Shakespeare, 
no  hint  as  to  the  causes  which  will  yield  a  Bacon. 
Shakespeare,  as  Shakespeare,  is  a  primitive,  super- 
natural power  in  English  history  ;  working  indeed 
under  the  conditions  of  that  history,  but  not  in- 
cluded in  them  or  explained  by  them.  He  expounds 
history,  our  literary  history,  more  than  that  history 
can  ever  expound  him.  If  genius  is  altogether  a  nat- 
ural product,  one  of  ways  and  means,  it  is  to  us,  as 
yet  wholly  ignorant  of  its  productive  conditions,  as  a 
supernatural  force,  one  that  comes  and  goes  without 
challenge.  The  soil  may  determine  what  trees 
shall  be  present  in  a  forest,  those  already  in  posses- 
sion may  still  farther  restrict  its  form  of  growth, 
but  the  vital  force  of  each  species  has   helped  to 


246    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITER ATUKt.. 

decide,  and  must  continue  to  decide,  its  make-up. 
Great  is  the  constitutional  force  of  society  at  any 
one  moment ;  but  into  it,  the  force  of  a  thousand 
individuals  has  already  been  wrought ;  into  it  other 
independent  spirits,  in  part  only  its  own  progeny, 
may  press  their  way,  and,  living  influences,  living 
in  and  with  the  national  life,  may  move  as  it  moves, 
yet  cause  it  to  swerve  more  and  more  under  their 
steady  pressure.  The  constitutional  vigor  of  soci- 
ety, great  as  it  may  be,  is  yet  plastic  to  the  indi- 
vidual hand,  and  in  time  may  receive  any  form  from 
it.  To  this  last  element  in  the  second  creative 
period,  that  of  genius,  we  now  turn. 

The  outside  influences  which  went  to  the  com- 
position of  Walter  Scott,  as  a  poet  and  novelist,  are 
very  obvious.  The  national  character  and  history 
were  vigorously  at  work  in  him.  An  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  border, 
and  of  its  wild  traditions  ;  a  spirit  thoroughly  im- 
bued with  the  mediaeval,  chivalrous  temper,  softened 
and  transfigured  by  a  poetic  imagination ;  and 
familiarity  with  the  natural  beauties  of  Scotland, 
with  an  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  them,  united  to 
give  shape  and  tone  to  his  works.  He  was  not  a 
product  of  the  present,  nor  of  the  past,  but  of  the 
past  history  of  his  country  as  transfigured  by  the 
present,  sifted  of  its  harsh  features,  and  wrought 
into  the  lively,  humane  dreams  of  poetry.  These 
historic  forces  were  not  merely  felt  and  transferred 
by  Walter  Scott,  he  had  a  peculiar  affinity  with 
them.  He  transformed  them  in  the  presentation, 
and  gave  them  a  power  and  life  native  to  himseU 


WALTER   SCOTT.  247 

What  he  added  to  them  by  a  glowing  fancy  is  as 
observ^able  and  essential  as  the  material  itself.  The 
trend  of  the  banks  accounts  for  the  bed  of  the  stream, 
but  not  for  the  torrent  that  fills  it.  This  is  fed  by 
the  deep  fountains  of  the  earth  and  the  passing 
clouds  of  heaven  ;  the  great  forces  of  nature  are 
every  moment  busy  with  this  labor. 

Walter  Scott  was  endowed  with  the  powers  of 
a  very  large  and  loving  observation  of  outside  life. 
With  comparatively  little  spiritual  penetration  or 
interpretation,  he  easily  seizes  in  nature  and  in  man 
their  sensible,  significant  features.  The  insight 
involved  in  this,  and  it  is  very  considerable,  belongs 
to  him  ;  but  he  does  not  go  much  beyond  it.  He 
renders  actions  in  their  outside  spirit  and  power, 
but  does  not  care  to  analyze  them,  to  study  their 
sources,  relations,  issues.  He  gives  a  glowing,  ac- 
tive picture,  renders  in  a  lively  way  the  flow  of 
events,  and  leaves  us  to  query  as  we  will  about  the 
impulses,  the  good  and  the  evil  that  are  in  them ; 
to  search  for  the  problems  of  life  they  contain,  and 
the  answers  they  make  to  them.  Yet  there  is  so 
full  a  rendering  of  character,  such  a  catching  of  the 
flavor  of  men  and  things,  that  we  are  at  once 
endowed  with  the  lively  observation  of  our  author, 
and  may,  though  we  are  not  provoked  to,  go 
deeper  than  he  in  our  inquiries.  The  light, 
fleeting  impressions  with  which  he  crowds  the  im- 
agination are  well  shown  in  his  picture  of  Loch 
Katrine  in  the  morning  light, 

"  The  mountain  shadows  on  her  breast 
Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest ; 


248    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie, 

Like  future  joys  to  fancy's  eye." 

Thus  he  touches  the  symbol  and  the  meaning 
beneath  it,  the  action  and  the  life  that  prompts  it, 
and  lets  the  two  glide  on  together,  without  division 
or  discussion.  With  this  temper  of  mind,  so  personal 
to  him,  so  spirited,  active  and  objective,  Walter 
Scott  deals  with  wholesome,  energetic,  out-door 
forces.  Reaching  little  that  is  either  direct  or  high 
in  intellectual  stimulus  he  puts  us  in  contact  with 
robust  life,  and  extracts  mental  health  from  physical 
inspiration  and  courageous  action.  The  morbid, 
mean  and  cowardly  skulk  away  ;  the  faithful,  mag- 
nanimous and  bold  are  in  the  foreground. 

The  likings  and  tastes  of  Walter  Scott  were  at 
one  with  the  spirit  of  his  works.  Chivalrous,  aristo- 
cratic proclivities,  in  their  best  form,  entered  largely 
into  his  character.  He  had  little  in  common  with 
modern  democracy ;  the  amenities,  sympathies,  and 
social  dependencies  of  the  old  regime  he  thoroughly 
appreciated.  The  revolutions  of  his  own  time  had 
slight  effect  upon  him.  While  others  were  stirred  by 
their  social  promise,  he,  called  into  actual  service 
by  the  threatened  invasion  of  Bonaparte,  was  com- 
posing his  Marmion,  as  he  walked  "  his  powerful 
steed  up  and  down  upon  the  Porto  Bello  sands  within 
the  beating  of  the  surge,  and  nOw  and  then  plunged 
in  his  spurs,  to  go  off  as  at  a  charge  with  the  spray 
dashing  about  him."*  So  lightly  did  these  events, 
ploughing  deep  furrows  in  more  philosophical  minds, 
slide  over  or  lose  themselves   in   his  pre-engaged 

*  Reed's  English  Poets,  vol.  ii.  p.  81. 


WALTER   SCOTT.  245 

fancies.  Walter  Scott  was  a  very  genuine  man, 
though  a  somewhat  antiquated  one.  His  strong 
bias  makes  him  limited  in  the  range  of  his  works. 
He  left  poetry  and  turned  to  fiction,  as  he  himself 
said,  because  he  "felt  the  prudence  of  giving  way 
before  the  more  forcible  and  powerful  genius  of 
Byron."  Had  he  not  also  exhausted  the  particular 
vein  of  poetry  which  his  tastes  and  attainments 
fitted  him  to  work?  Endless  production  was  here 
an  impossibility.  The  material  at  his  disposal  be- 
came more  available  in  the  novel  than  in  the  poem. 
A  monotony  of  form  had  begun  to  show  itself  as  the 
result  of  a  monotony  of  matter.  Variety  is  a  sterner 
necessity  in  high  art  than  in  fiction,  and  the  want 
of  it  is  more  immediately  apparent.  The  very 
felicity  of  adaptation  of  material,  language,  metre 
in  the  best  of  Scott's  poems  cut  him  off  from  con- 
tinuous production.  Emphatic  in  their  kind,  they 
could  not  return  again  and  again.  He  grew  weary, 
and  others  were  weary  with  him.  It  is  true,  more- 
over, that  Byron's  works  "  wonderfully  excited  and 
intoxicated  the  public  mind  at  first,  and  for  a  time 
made  all  other  poetry  seem  spiritless  and  weari- 
some." Scott  stands  alone  in  his  poetic  works. 
Some  may  hastily  depreciate  them ;  none  can  speak 
slightingly  of  their  execution. 

Personal  passion  was  to  Byron  what  national 
romance  was  to  Scott.  Strong,  restless,  ungovern- 
able emotion,  seldom  beneficent,  often  startling  and 
destructive,  underlay  his  volcanic  nature.  An 
irritable,  overbearing  self-consciousness,  the  pro- 
duct of  lawless,  selfish  impulses,  of  appetites  and 


250    THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

passions  keenly  alive  to  pleasure,  and  forever  baf- 
fled in  its  pursuit,  of  a  soul  in  proud  wilfulness 
and  real  strength  refusing  to  be  taught,  was  the 
distinguishing  spiritual  feature  in  the  character  of 
Byron.  He  was  constitutionally  immoral  in  the 
sense  that  he  constantly  felt,  and  as  constantly 
chafed  at,  moral  law.  The  infidelity  of  the  time 
wrought  no  repose  in  him.  He  did  not  accept  un- 
belief indifferently,  quietly  as  a  philosophy  ;  he  fled 
to  it  as  a  poor  defense  against  belief,  as  a  refuge 
from  the  bitter  rebukes  and  endless  strifes  of  his 
own  restless  spirit.  He  was  intensely  immoral 
because  he  felt  so  intensely  the  moral  law,  and  so 
struggled  to  break  his  way  through  it.  He  could 
not  for  a  moment  overlook  or  forget  it.  Mere  stu- 
pidity, mere  brutishness  and  mere  speculation  were 
alike  impossible  to  him.  He  took  the  fears  of  un- 
belief, the  extinguished  hopes  of  materialism,  home 
to  a  high  poetic  temperament,  that  to  its  very  core 
revolted  against  them,  and  could  only  have  been  as- 
suaged, lifted,  inspired  by  pure  and  profound  belief. 
From  the  strife  about  him  for  social  liberty  he  gath- 
ered little  save  more  wind  for  the  flame  of  his  own 
passions.  With  the  restraints  of  liberty  he  had  no 
sympathy,  and  was  only  once  blessed  by  its  spirit, 
v/hen  helped  for  a  brief  period  by  the  Greek  revo- 
lution into  a  more  generous  and  objective  life. 

The  intense,  passionate  nature  of  Byron,  while 
it  was  the  propelling  force  of  his  art,  yet  robbed  him 
of  that  large,  catholic  success  which  his  lively  wit, 
fruitful  imagination,  and  quick  intuition  of  beauty 
seemed  to  promise.     It  narrowed  down  his  percep- 


BYRON.  251 

lions  of  character,  and  at  the  same  time  perverted 
them.  His  ideal  man  and  his  ideal  woman  stand 
over  against  each  other,  complements  in  passion, 
but  alike  false  to  the  true  nobility  of  their  sex. 
On  the  one  side  are  pride,  strength,  disobedience, 
indulgence ;  on  the  other  concession,  devotion, 
the  smothered  fires  of  a  soul  that  cannot  escape 
beyond  the  heat  of  its  own  narrow,  intense,  blind 
life,  but  must  needs,  with  none  of  the  rallying 
forces  of  self-respect,  smoulder  and  perish  in  it. 
There  is  in  the  one  no  patience,  no  restraint,  no 
magnanimity,  no  nobility ;  in  the  other  there  is  no 
worthiness,  no  independence,  nothing  holy  and 
uncontaminate.  The  poems  of  Byron  are  compara- 
tively lost,  by  the  lie  which,  hidden  in  his  own 
soul,  so  often  reappears  in  them  ;  by  the  futile 
and  ever  renewed  effort  to  unite  beauty,  first  to 
license  and  then  to  the  sullen,  resentful  moods  of 
impotent  rebellion.  His  wit,  as  in  Don  Juan,  thus 
plays  phosphorescent  about  things  dead  and  cor- 
rupt ;  his  pathos  springs  suddenly  up  with  no  suf- 
ficient nourishment  in  the  worth  of  the  characters 
that  call  it  forth  ;  his  yearnings  for  that  which  is 
better  are  only  regrets,  momentary  rents  in  hurry- 
ing, wind-sped  clouds.  His  cry  is  a  single,  plain- 
tive, despairing  note,  as  of  a  bird  lost  in  the 
darkness : 

"  No  more,  no  more,  oh  never  more  on  me 
The  freshness  of  the  heart  car  fall  like  dew. 
Which  out  of  all  the  lovely  things  we  see 
Extracts  emotions  beautiful  and  new." 

Don  Juan,  the  work  on  which  Byron  squandered 


2^2     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

his  ripest  intellectual  strength,  lacks  most  of  all  the, 
beauty  of  character,  the  coherence  of  healthy, 
wholesome  life.  It  more  than  any  other  of  his 
poems  is  breaking  out  everywhere  with  his  own 
corrupt,  defiant  spirit,  hastening  on  to  death.  The 
flowers  grow,  but  they  are  passion  flowers,  and  we 
catch  the  rank  odors  of  the  saturated  soil  that  bears 
them.  The  mischief  which  his  own  nature  wrought 
in  him  is  seen  in  this  increased  distortion  of  his 
works,  in  the  intense  resentment  it  called  forth  in 
him  against  any  restraint  or  criticism,  and  in  his 
personal  antipathies  to  those  of  a  nobler  spirit. 

The  immorality  of  Byron's  works  consists  super- 
ficially in  their  licentiousness  ;  far  more  deeply  and 
pervasively  in  his  confounding  lawlessness  with 
strength,  accepting  proud  despair  as  the  portion  of 
the  soul,  and  presenting  pleasure  as  the  bait  by 
which  free,  noble  spirits  are  caught  and  hopelessly 
entangled  in  the  net-work  of  malign  world-forces, 
the  providences  of  a  demiurge.  He  had  no  power 
to  perceive  the  beauties  of  faith,  or  the  loving  guid- 
ance and  strength  of  the  God  of  the  faithful.  Byron 
is  fitted  to  captivate  bold,  active,  restless,  unreflect- 
ive  spirits,  who  have  not  yet  exhausted  the  foun- 
tains of  their  physical  life,  and  can  still  give  a  dash 
of  freedom  and  a  relish  of  appetite  to  rebellion  ;  but 
the  sober,  disciplined,  deepened,  dispassionate  mind 
finds  increasingly  less  to  love  and  to  cherish  in  him. 

"The  Byron-fever  is  in  fact  a  disease  belonging 
to  youth,  as  the  whooping-cough  to  childhood — 
working  some  occult  good  no  doubt  in  the  end.  It 
has  its   origin,  perhaps,  in   the   fact   that   the   poet 


BYRON.  253 

makes  no  demand  either  on  the  intellect  or  the  con- 
science, but  confines  himself  to  friendly  intercourse 
with  those  passions  whose  birth  long  precedes  that 
of  choice  in  their  objects — whence  a  wealth  of  emo- 
tion is  squandered.  It  is  long  before  we  discover 
that  far  richer  feeling  is  the  result  of  a  regard  bent 
on  the  profound  and  the  pure."  ■■'■ 

Byron  himself  is  the  best  antidote  to  his  works. 
That  life  and  those  poems  put  side  by  side,  and 
read  together,  are  a  chapter  in  ethics  which  few  can 
mistake.  As  the  rocket  is  driven  aloft  by  the  reac- 
tion, the  spurn  of  its  own  spiteful  forces,  and,  reach- 
ing the  upper  air,  explodes  in  yellow,  purple  and  lurid 
light,  so  Byron  forced  his  way  upward  with  scorn 
and  repulsion,  flamed  out  in  wild,  explosive,  bril- 
liant excesses,  and  disappeared  in  darkness  made 
only  the  more  palpable. 

"  Man's  a  strange  animal,  and  makes  strange  use 
Of  his  own  nature." 

As  Scott  was  the  poet  of  the  chivalrous  temper 
of  the  past,  so  was  Byron  the  poet  of  the  wild,  pas- 
sionate, lawless  one  of  the  present — a  bold,  appeti- 
tive spirit,  spurning  resentfully  at  restraint.  Each 
added  genius  to  a  constitutional  tendency  of  society, 
and  secured  a  large  following. 

Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  were  closely  united 
by  friendship,  by  an  agreement  tempered  by  a 
diversity  of  tastes,  and  by  a  union  of  sentiments. 
They  both  accepted  with  the  generosity  and  impet- 
uosity of  youth  the  new  hopes  of  liberty ;  and  bGth, 
as  years  ripened  the  understanding,  came   to  see 

*  Alec  Forbes,  by  MacDonald. 


254     'IIIE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

more  clearly  its  conditions  and  limitations.  Southey 
shared  with  them  this  oscillation  between  the  en- 
thusiasm of  sentiment  and  the  caution  of  judgment, 
the  latter  gaining  with  him  early  and  easily  the 
mastery. 

Coleridge  possessed  the  most  undeniable  and 
wide-ranging  genius  of  any  one  of  his  time.  Its 
practical  force,  its  sustained  insight  were  greatly 
restricted  by  a  vacillation,  a  weakness  of  will,  which 
loosened  his  powers,  and  lost  for  them  their  true 
pivot  of  revolution,  their  smoothness  and  harmony 
of  action.  His  naturally  enervate  temper  was  en- 
hanced in  early  life  by  the  lack  of  vigorous  disci- 
pline, and  later  by  an  indulgence  in  opium.  He 
thus  fell  into  pitiful  imbecility,  taxing  for  support 
the  charity  of  friends,  and  craving  from  the  charity 
of  Heaven  a  forgiveness  that  issued  in  no  new 
strength.  Thus  natural  gifts  so  varied  and  so  great 
that  they  only  called  for  patient  and  wise  use  to 
put  him  among  the  few  great  masters  of  men  were 
humbled  and  in  a  measure  lost. 

Philosophy,  a  philosophy  that  sprang  from  and 
expressed  the  insight  of  the  soul,  was  the  seat  of 
his  strength ;  but  philosophy  was  so  united  in  him 
to  a  creative  fancy,  that  as  many  remember  the 
poet  as  the  sage.  These  two  even-handed  gifts 
made  him  the  very  best  of  critics  ;  and  appreciative, 
suggestive  criticism  became  a  third  endowment. 
The  influence  of  these  three  gifts  was  enhanced 
by  their  harmony,  and  by  his  unusual  conversational 
powers  ;  or  better,  perhaps,  by  his  ability  to  impress 
himseli  upon  others  in  harangues  which  took  the 


COLERIDGE.  255 

place  of  conversation.  If  what  Carlyle  says  of  him 
be  partially  true,  "I  have  heard  Coleridge  talk, 
with  eager,  musical  energy,  two  stricken  hours,  his 
face  radiant  and  moist,  and  communicate  no  mean- 
ing whatsoever  to  any  individual  of  his  hearers,  cer- 
tain of  whom,  I  for  one,  still  kept  eagerly  listening 
in  hope,  "  *  the  force  and  inspiration  of  the  man  wh 
could  hold,  and,  on  these  hard  conditions,  suffi- 
ciently reward,  superior  men,  ever  reluctant  to  be 
mere  listeners,  are  only  the  more  apparent.  He 
says  farther,  "  Coleridge's  talk  and  speculation  was 
the  emblem  of  himself;  in  it  as  in  him  a  ray  of 
heavenly  inspiration  struggled,  in  a  tragically  inef- 
fectual degree,  with  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  and 
blood."  t 

The  centre  of  his  philosophy  was  a  stern  resist- 
ance to  materialism,  a  reintroduction  of  spiritual 
intuitions,  a  reassertion  of  the  reason.  This  gave 
new  faith  to  his  love  of  freedom,  new  devotion  to 
his  religious  belief,  deeper  insight  to  his  criticism,  a 
loftier  inspiration  to  his  poetry. 

An  enervate  will,  and  that  too  in  connection 
with  an  indulgence  that  was  undisguised  sin  before 
the  keen,  rebuking  eye  of  his  own  soul,  was  espe- 
cially fatal  to  the  upward,  poised,  independent  flight 
that  belonged  to  his  spiritual  temperament.  All 
are  struck  alike  by  the  fragmentary  character  of  his 
work.  His  great  poems  are  comparatively  brief; 
some  of  them  odes  that  could  receive  form  under  a 
single,  undivided  impulse,  the  subtly  woven  words 

•  Introduction  to  Coleridge's  Poems.     Little  &  Brown, 
t  Ibid. 


256    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

springing  at  once  from  the  emotion,  as  "the  flame 
from  its  feeding  oil."  This  "sublime  man,"  as  Car- 
lyle  calls  him,  possessed  of  "a  prophetic  or  magician 
character,"  to  whose  actual  endowments  men  were 
ready  to  add  a  halo  of  mystery,  wielded  an  influence 
quite  beyond  the  direct  results  of  his  works.  He 
gave  truths,  easily  lost  to  the  English  mind,  a  fresh 
lighting  up,  and  startled  with  them,  when  he  did 
not  disperse,  the  shadows  of  materialism.  It  is 
minds  like  his  that  furnish  turning  points  of  thought. 
By  them  we  pass  a  headland,  or  double  a  continent, 
and  find  new  waters  and  new  tracts  before  us.  If 
we  are  tempted  profoundly  to  regret  the  dislocated 
products  of  such  a  mind,  the  vast  fields  of  broken 
ice-floe  that  it  sends  drifting  by,  we  are  yet  propor- 
tionately impressed  by  the  brilliant  lights ;  the 
strange,  weird  forms ;  and  deep,  exhaustless  and 
inscrutable  forces,  that  are  here.  Coleridge,  as 
Coleridge,  appeals  to  the  thoughts  and  imagination 
hardly  less  than  if  he  had  carefully  planned  and 
perfectly  finished  his  works.  The  quick  view  that 
we  catch  from  some  bold  Alpine  summit  finds  the 
foil  of  its  wealth,  its  fascination  to  memory,  in  the 
very  indistincness  and  haste  that  make  us  wish  to 
return  to  it.  Carlyle  acknowledges  with  too  little 
appreciation  the  great  fragmentary  thoughts  that 
fell  from  the  lips  of  Coleridge.  They  sometimes 
found  the  richest  soil,  and  brought  forth  their  one 
hundred-fold.  Wordsworth,  DeQuincey,  Hazlitt  pre- 
sented minds  with  whom  a  suggestion  was  a  harvest. 
Wordsworth  is  in  important  respects  the  fore- 
most poet  of  the  period  under  consideration.     He 


WORDSWORTH.  257 

gave  with  deliberate  purpose  through  a  long  life 
his  undivided  and  growing  powers  to  his  own  favor- 
ite pursuit.  He  coveted  success,  not  so  much  as 
an  ambition  as  a  thirst  of  the  soul  for  high  spiritual 
insight  and  an  effective,  sufficient  rendering  of  the 
things  seen. 

"  Blessings  be  with  them — and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  lives,  and  nobler  cares — 
The  poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays ! 
Oh  !  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs, 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days." 

Wordsworth  is  among  the  most  voluminous  of 
English  poets, — the  omnipresence  of  the  poetic  sen- 
timent was  an  article  of  his  creed  and  practice — 
and  none  of  them  have  more  decided  or  original 
characteristics.  He  was  the  centre  of  the  Lake 
School,  a  name  that  sprang  from  local  connections, 
and  turned,  in  its  application,  more  on  personal 
friendship  and  sympathy,  a  general  concurrence  of 
feeling,  than  on  a  single  theory  of  art  shared  by  its 
members.  Southey  was  most  nearly  united  to 
Wordsworth  in  critical  views,  but  between  their 
poems  there  is  no  close  agreement.  The  ability  of 
Wordsworth,  his  steadfastness  and  faithfulness,  won 
him  pre-eminence  in  the  new  movement ;  and  with 
these,  other  causes  concurred.  He  announced  a 
theory  of  poetry,  and  gave  it  in  his  works  extreme 
illustration.  He  suffered  the  harshest  criticism, 
and  slowly  conquered  bitter,  dominant  prejudice  by 
expansion  in  his  own  line  of  effort  under  his  own 
conceptions.     This  forcing  growth  against  the  ac- 


258      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

cepted  canons  of  art,  laid  down  by  the  acknowledged 
critics  of  the  day,  like  Jeffrey,  and  under  the  con- 
tempt of  popular  poets,  like  Byron,  drew  attention 
and  sympathy  to  the  independent  power  that 
achieved  it.  Wordsworth  has  hence  been  assigned 
a  position  that  hardly  belongs  to  him.  He  has 
been  looked  on  as  founding  a  school  of  poetry,  giv- 
ing birth  to  a  new  era,  rather  than  as  one  who  best 
embodied  and  most  completely  presented  a  spirit 
that  had  in  various  forms,  for  years,  been  gaining 
ground  in  English  literature.  Though  not  the  first, 
he  is  the  highest,  and  most  central,  summit  in  the 
mountain  range  skirting  the  new  realm  of  poetry ; 
and  stands  disclosed,  quiet,  serene,  eternal  in  the 
clear  transforming  light  of  an  earnest,  reflective  im- 
agination. 

It  is  not  altogether  strange  that  Wordsworth 
should  have  met  with  severe  criticism.  His  theory 
of  art  was  not  well  put ;  some  of  its  illustrations,  as 
The  Idiot  Boy,  were  extreme  ;  while  criticism,  bur- 
dened with  a  large  inheritance  of  conventional  opin- 
ions and  conventional  praise  descending  from  Pope, 
his  cotemporaries  and  subsequent  admirers,  was 
still  inclined  to  the  cold,  formal  and  preceptive  in 
art.  The  pith  and  truth  of  the  theory  of  Words- 
worth, as  shown  by  his  poems,  are  found  in  the  fact, 
that  all  forms  of  life  have  in  them  poetical  elements, 
and  require  only  a  sensitive,  intuitive  presentation 
for  their  disclosure.  Herein  lies  the  genius  of 
Wordsworth,  that  with  intense,  pervasive  feeling ; 
quick,  penetrative  sympathy,  he  is  able  to  move 
among  all  objects,  touching  the  lowest  in  human 


WOKDSWOKTH.  259 

life,  and  those  in  nature  most  remote  from  ordinary 
insight,  and  bear  everywhere  with  him  an  inspira- 
tion and  a  rendering  that  disclose  their  hold  upon 
the  human  soul,  their  share  in  the  problems  of  the 
universe.  This  is  what  he  has  actually  done,  and 
this  we  may  well  believe  is  what  he  intended  to  do. 
His  own  statement,  however,  of  his  principles  of 
art  is  not  convincing,  and  seems  to  have  been 
shaped  in  part  by  contradiction,  by  resistance  to 
the  coldly  elevated  and  critical  spirit  that  had  gone 
before  him,  and  whose  influence  was  still  predomi- 
nant. He  described  "his  object  as  being  to  ascer- 
tain how  far  the  purposes  of  poetry  might  be  ful- 
filled by  fitting  to  metrical  arrangement  a  selection 
of  the  real  language  of  men,  in  a  state  of  vivid  sen- 
sation." Herein  he  failed  to  do  full  honor  to  the 
appreciation,  the  interpretation,  that  always  abide 
with  the  poet,  and  which  so  distinguish  him  from 
other  men.  "He  goes  out  of  his  way  to  be  at- 
tacked." '•'•■  How  easily  Wordsworth's  omnivorous 
poetic  fancy  invites  ridicule,  the  criticism  of  Taine 
suffices  to  show. 

Wordsworth  affords  an  admirable  illustration  of 
a  new  tendency  in  art,  mounting  rapidly  into  full 
power,  and  henceforth  made  dominant,  by  virtue 
of  its  contact  with  one  soul  in  which  it  lights  and 
feeds  the  flames  of  genius.  An  influence  before 
but  dimly  perceived  became  speedily  enthroned, 
and  gave  a  date  for  a  new  intellectual  dynasty. 

The  social  and  political  forces  were  at  first  as 
keenly  felt  by  Wordsworth   as   the  poetical    ones, 

*  Lander's  Conversations. 


260    THF    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATOUt. 

though  his  own  strong  spirit  tempered  them  to 
moderation  as  he  slowly  and  painfully  struggled 
back  to  the  footing  of  experience  and  faith.  His 
placid,  thoughtful  and  retiring  disposition  could 
hold  no  terms  with  fruitless  and  bloody  revolution. 
He  loved  too  well  the  peaceful  promise  of  nature 
and  society.  He  thus  prays  in  behalf  of  his  own 
nation : 

"  Oh  that  with  soul-aspirings  more  intense, 
And  heart-humiliations  more  profound, 
This  people/  long  so  happy,  so  renowned 
For  liberty,  would  seek  from  God  defense 
Against  far  heavier  ill — the  pestilence 
Of  Revolution,  impiously  unbound  !  " 

How  diverse  this  from  the  feeling  which  had  led 
him  earlier  to  exclaim  of  the  French  Revolution  : 

"  O  pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  ! 
For  mighty  were  the  auxiliars  which  then  stood 
Upon  our  side,  we  who  were  strong  in  love  1 
Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive. 
But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven  !  " 

It  is  not  easy  for  us  fully  to  understand  the 
darkening  down  of  the  entire  spiritual  heavens 
incident  to  the  bitter  disappointments  of  blind,  futile 
progress,  which  has  served  to  express  the  pas- 
sions of  men,  rather  than  to  establish  their  con- 
victions. It  is  not  easy  to  get  again  the  foothold 
of  faith  after  the  shock  and  paralysis  attendant 
on  the  overthrow  of  too  sanguine  hopes.  Words- 
worth was  a  reflective,  meditative  poet.  It  was  not 
the  form  and  garniture  of  the  world  that  he  loved  to 
present,  but  its  emotional  foice,  its  suggestions  to 
the  spiritual  nature.     It  was  not  action  in  human 


WORDSWORTH. 


261 


life,  but  its  under-current  of  sentiment,  that  he 
delineated.  He  is  especially  undramatic,  for  it  is 
not  the  surface-play  of  events  that  occupies  him, 
but  the  secret  nurture  of  the  soul,  its  half  blind 
responses  to  the  circumstances  that  try  it.  Words- 
worth above  all  other  poets  calls  for  a  spiritual 
sympathy  of  his  readers  with  himself  On  this 
condition  only  we  pass  with  him  those  invisible 
lines  which  divide  mere  facts  from  the  Elysian 
fields  of  the  poetic  fancy.  Says  Taine,  "When  I 
shall  have  emptied  my  head  of  all  worldly  thoughts, 
and  looked  up  to  the  clouds  for  ten  years  to  re- 
fine my  soul,  I  shall  love  this  poetry.  Meanwhile, 
the  web  of  imperceptible  threads  by  which  Words- 
worth endeavors  to  bind  together  all  sentiments 
and  embrace  all  nature,  breaks  in  my  fingers ; 
it  is  too  fragile  ;  it  is  a  woof  of  woven  spider  web, 
spun  by  a  metaphysical  imagination,  and  tearing 
as  soon  as  a  solid  hand  tries  to  touch  it."  ■••'•" 

Ought  not  Taine  to  have  asked,  How  came 
this  man  to  spring  out  of  English  mud  and  Eng- 
lish utihties  ?  Genius,  even  in  an  English  soul, 
breaks,  in  a  troublesome  way,  the  cobweb  threads 
of  a  too  ingenious  philosophy.  Tenuous  as  are  the 
connections  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  they  are  too 
strong  for  the  reasoning  of  Taine. 

To  the  great  personal  forces  represented  in 
Scott,  Byron,  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  there  are  to 
be  added  others  of  diverse  and  somewhat  inferior 
pov/er,  Crabbe,  Southey,  Moore,  Keats,  and  above 
all,  Shelley.     In  vigor  and  boldness  of  poetic  fac- 

*  History  of  Eng.  Literature,  vol  ii.  p.  262. 


262     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

ulties,  Shelley  is  scarcely  surpassed  by  any.  No 
region  was  too  remote,  too  ethereal  for  his  sus- 
tained and  sweeping  flight,  no  path  was  so  slight 
or  sinuous  as  to  be  altogether  lost  under  his 
searching  eye.  In  him  the  imaginative  impulses 
were  in  excess ;  he  felt  commonplace  too  weakly, 
?.nd  returned  to  it,  and  its  ally,  common-sense,  too 
rarely.  He  was  instantly  lost  to  the  slow,  plod- 
ding steps  of  judgment.  Above  all  the  poets  of 
his  time,  he  was  fired  with  revolutionary  hopes, 
and  struggled  resentfully  on  toward  the  better  times 
which  the  successive  stages  of  change  served  only 
to  postpone.  He  found  himself  at  war  with  religion, 
with  society,  and  government,  a  war  prompted  by 
the  compass  and  humanity  of  his  sentiments,  and 
a  resistance  to  restraints  whose  ground  he  failed  to 
comprehend.  Shelley  needed  only  more  sober  and 
solid  thought,  a  mind  ballasted  by  more  common 
and  cheap  qualities,  to  have  moved  among  the  high- 
est. The  poetic  elements  super-abounded,  and 
allowed  him  to  be  driven  before  a  whirlwind  of 
sentiment,  which  found  in  him  magnificent,  though 
'too  often  wild,  utterance.  What  his  biographer 
says  of  Landor, — who  also  deserves  more  attention 
than  he  receives  —  was  equally  true  of  Shelley ; 
though  the  one  was  impelled  more  by  will,  and  the 
other  by  affection :  "  What  was  wanting  in  his 
books  and  in  his  life  was  submission  to  some  kind 
of  law."  «' 

The   beauty  of  his  poetry  never   quite   covers 
with  its  verdure  the  volcanic  forces  at  work  under 

*  Life  of  Landor,  p.  676. 


SHELLEY.  263 

it.  A  sense  neither  of  safety  and  sufficiency  noi 
of  quiet  hope  settles  down  on  his  landscape. 
We  are  dealing  with  agencies  that  work  with 
terrific  energy,  nor  always  with  a  sober  fore- 
sight of  results.  One  cannot  but  love  Shelley, 
and  delight  in  him.  The  generosity  and  eleva- 
tion of  his  sentiments  cleanse  him  from  the  soil 
that  attaches  to  the  selfish  passions  of  Byron. 
We  can  but  wish  that  a  safe  substratum  of 
thought  had  upheld  and  nourished  all  this  splen- 
dor of  imagination,  this  enthusiasm  of  soul.  He 
thus  states  his  own  purpose  in  his  preface  to 
The  Revolt  of  Islam  : 

"  It  is  an  experiment  on  the  temper  of  the 
public  mind,  as  to  how  far  a  thirst  for  a  hap- 
pier condition  of  moral  and  political  society  sur- 
vives, among  the  enlightened  and  refined,  the 
tempests  which  have  shaken  the  age  in  which 
we  live.  I  have  sought  to  enlist  the  harmony 
of  metrical  language,  the  ethereal  combinations 
of  the  fancy,  the  rapid  and  subtle  transitions  of 
human  passion,  all  those  elements  which  essen- 
tially compose  a  poem,  in  the  cause  of  liberal 
and  comprehensive  morality  ;  and  in  the  view  of 
kindling  within  the  bosom  of  my  readers  a  vir- 
tuous enthusiasm  for  those  doctrines  of  liberty 
and  justice,  that  faith  and  hope  in  something 
good,  which  neither  violence  nor  prejudice  can 
ever  totally  extinguish  among  mankind." 

Who  can  fail  to  sympathize  with  this  daunt- 
less effort  of  a  noble  mind,  though  it  misses  the 
conditions   of  success,  or  breaks  restively  through 


264    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

them  when  they  lie  before  it  ?  Shelley  was  as 
foreign  to  the  English  temper  on  one  side,  as 
Wordsworth  on  another,  and  both  must  find  in- 
terpretation and  honor  in  the  depths  of  natures 
akin  to  their  own.  Such  men  bring  to  us  the 
trying  test  of  appreciation,  by  which  we  define 
our  place  among  men,  and  settle  what  in  heaven 
and  earth  lies  open  to  us. 


LECTURE  XI. 

Last  three  centuries. — Present  period  one  of  diffusion. — Science, 
Lectures,  History. — Chief  features,  the  novel  and  the  news- 
paper.— Character  of  the  novel,  its  divisions,  its  office. — 
Newspapers,  their  multiplication,  advantages,  disadvantages. — 
Promise  of  the  times. 

The  last  three  centuries,  the  seventeenth,  eigh- 
teenth and  nineteenth,  have  each  opened  with  de- 
cided Uterary  tendencies.  The  first  dawned  in  the 
clear,  growing  light  of  the  Elizabethan  era,  when 
the  early  forces  of  our  literature  were  in  full  play  ; 
the  second  came  forward  with  less  fascination,  with 
more  tame  and  tempered  light,  as  our  Augustan 
age  of  art ;  and  the  third  restored  us  again  to  the 
impassioned  powers  and  dewy  freshness  of  our  na- 
tional growth,  broke  once  more  in  a  day  of  crea- 
tive energy,  clothed  anew  with  beauty  and  with 
strength.  The  middle  of  this  century,  which  open- 
ed so  auspiciously,  it  is  too  early  to  characterize 
in  its  relation  to  those  periods  that  have  gone 
before  and  those  that  are  to  follow.  Not  till  the 
issues  of  an  age  are  seen,  can  we  certainly  say  for 
what  it  is  making  ready,  in  what  direction  it  is 
modifying  the  life  it  has  received.  Certainly,  these 
midway  years  of  the  present  century,  are  not  dis- 
tinctively creative  in  art,  as  compared  with  those 
that  preceded  them.  They  seem  rather  to  indicate 
a  gentle  subsidence  of  those  inventive  powers  which 

12  (265) 


266     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

SO  exultingly  lifted  the  national  mind  in  Scott, 
Byron,  Wordsworth. 

The  present  may  prove  the  slope  and  expansion 
of  these  high  summits  into  beautiful  and  arable 
plains,  to  be  joined  again  on  their  farther  side  to 
rival  mountain  ranges  ;  or  it  may  be,  so  wakeful  is 
the  critical  feeling  with  us,  but  the  opening  of  one 
of  those  prairie  stretches  of  great  fertility  and 
slight  diversity,  consoling  the  appetites  rather  than 
inflaming  the  imagination  of  men. 

The  present  is  a  prose  rather  than  a  poetic  era, 
and  this  by  the  bulk,  central  body  and  quality  of 
its  productiveness.  There  is,  perhaps,  more  poetry 
written  to-day  than  ever  belbre,  and  much  of  it  is 
very  good  ;  but  there  are  very  few  poets  who  com- 
mand the  attention  of  the  English  nations, — those 
distinct  or  united  nationalities,  that  have  laid  down 
liberal  boundaries  of  present  and  future  power  in 
every  quarter  of  the  globe.  It  is  difficult,  indeed, 
to  send  a  tidal  wave  along  these  conjoint,  mobile 
lines  of  language  and  literature,  spreading  through 
every  branch  of  the  great  English  people,  and  few  art 
doing  it.  Questions  of  science,  new  theories,  new 
fictions,  chase  each  other  more  rapidly  around  the 
English  globe,  than  new  poems. 

While,  however,  it  is  a  prose  period,  one  of  very 
diversified  and  very  busy  inquiry,  of  sharp  and 
destructive  criticism,  of  bold  theory,  and  of  practical 
reform  everywhere,  and  especially  among  English- 
men, cisatlantic  and  transatlantic,  it  can  better  be 
considered,  waiting  for  its  final  literary  relations  to 
disclose   themselves,  as  one  of  diffusion.      In  this 


A   PERIOD    OF    DIFFUSION.  267 

particular,  it  is  broadly  and  nobly  distinguished 
from  every  age  that  has  gone  before  it.  This  very 
startling  fact  of  diffusion,  this  spread  of  richly-laden 
waters  over  every  cultivated  field,  this  leaving  a 
deposit  of  thought,  not  merely  along  conventional 
lines  in  rich  river  bottoms,  but  over  the  scant  and 
remote  acres  of  the  poor,  may  have  little  interest 
for  mere  literati,  but  is  of  profound  concernment 
to  the  philanthropist.  Above  all  ages,  our  own 
deserves  honor  for  this  enlargement  of  thought, 
this  scattering  everywhere  of  some  scant  measure 
at  least  of  the  treasures  of  literary  art.  From  this 
practical  side,  we  shall  chiefly  consider  this  practi- 
cal period,  this  period,  that  halts  a  little  in  the 
merely  intellectual  march  of  the  race,  that  it  may 
send  its  voice  abroad  and  backward,  gathering  on 
every  side  enlarged  numbers  into  the  fellowship  of  its 
strength,  and  waiting  to  compact  its  ranks,  before 
it  renews  its  advance. 

The  scientific  is,  on  the  whole,  the  pre- 
dominant phase  of  thought  with  us.  Philosophy 
suffers  disparagement ;  historical,  religious  and 
social  dogmas  are  kept  in  perpetual  agitation  and 
irritation  by  the  bearings  on  them  of  the  scientific 
spirit,  its  theories  and  its  facts.  This  science  reaches 
the  people  in  inventions  and  discoveries,  in  in- 
numerable lines  of  industrial  improvement.  It  is 
not  content,  however,  with  this ;  popularized  in  a 
great  variety  of  ways,  it  seeks  and  everywhere  finds 
an  enlarged  and  enlarging  audience.  This  can- 
not be  called  an  age  of  oratory,  for  the  same  reason 
that  it  is  not  a  poetic  one  ;  but  certainly,  no  period 


268    THE    PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

ever  beheld  so  many  who  have  sought  the  general 
ear  for  purposes  of  instruction.  If  the  resounding 
oration  has  been  displaced  by  the  more  modest 
lecture,  this  truly  has  been  attended  with  results 
as  benign  and  as  far-reaching  as  have  ever  fallen 
to  oratory.  It  has  become  the  office  of  speaking 
more  frequently  to  present  and  expound  the  truth 
than  to  enforce  it,  and  into  this  branch  of  in- 
struction men  spring  up  everywhere  by  tens,  by 
hundreds,  by  thousands. 

The  love  of  facts,  near  and  remote,  that  belongs 
to  science,  shows  itself  also  in  history.  Historical 
research,  criticism  and  composition,  have  been 
greatly  enlarged  in  the  present  period.  The  phi- 
losophy of  history,  the  leading  forces  that  have 
wrought  in  it,  have  been  diligently  sought  into  by 
such  men  as  Hallam,  Buckle,  Lecky,  Stanley,  Tylor, 
while  history  in  the  common  acceptance  of  the 
term  has  been  voluminously  written  with  more  than 
wonted  insight  into  the  connection  of  events,  and 
more  than  wonted  wisdom  in  their  selection.  Kings 
and  conquerors  have  ceased  to  occupy  the  entire 
historic  stage,  and  the  condition,  customs  and  opin- 
ions of  the  masses  of  men,  claim  their  share  of 
attention.  The  list  of  historical  writers  has  never 
been  larger,  or  indicated  better  perception  or  more 
power,  either  here  or  in  England,  than  during  the 
forty  years  which  have  just  passed  away.  Macau- 
lay,  Grote,  Arnold,  Merivale,  Rawlinson,  Milman, 
Mahon,  Froude,  Kinglake,  Freeman,  Bancroft, 
Prescott,  Motley,  constitute  but  leading  figures  in 
the  laborious  group. 


THE  NOVEL  AND  THE  NEWSPAPER.     269 

The  two  departments  of  literature,  however, 
which  have  had  the  widest  popular  influence,  and 
are  most  characteristic  of  the  period  as  one  of  diffu- 
sion, are  the  novel  and  the  periodical.  Gathering 
the  last  in  its  manifold  forms  under  one  term  ex- 
pressing the  most  typical  member  of  the  group,  we 
may  say,  the  novel  and  the  newspaper  are  the  mos 
peculiar  and  influential  of  the  literary  forces  at  work 
at  the  present  time.  The  novel  is  the  most  purely 
artistic  prose  production,  and  is  most  closely  allied 
to  history,  also  with  us  particularly  ambitious  of 
literary  excellence.  The  novel  adds  poetic  to  prose 
qualities.  The  creative  faculties  are  uppermost  in 
it,  since  it  calls  out  and  orders  events  in  the  strict 
development  of  a  subjective  purpose,  in  the  expres- 
sion and  execution  of  a  conception.  The  poem  is 
not  more  plastic,  does  not  more  wait  on  the  mould- 
ing touch  of  the  thought  which  creates  it,  than  does 
die  novel. 

As  primarily  and  immediately  does  the  novel 
deal  with  the  emotions.  All  emotions,  under  every 
variety  of  condition,  fall  to  it,  and  one  supreme  emo- 
tion, one  supreme  sympathy,  waits  habitually  upon 
It,  that  of  love.  All  that  can  be  made  of  human  life 
in  its  conjoint  and  individual  unfolding,  in  its  serial 
forces,  is  open  to  the  novelist ;  and  none,  therefore, 
can  seaich  more  deeply  the  human  spirit,  put 
together  more  constructively  its  passions  and  im- 
pulses, or  trace  more  consecutively  and  freely  its 
types  of  character,  the  varieties  and  issues  of  its 
action.     No  field  can  be  more  free,    more  interest- 


270       THE    PHILOSOPHY   OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

ing,  closer  to  the  human  heart,  and  to  human  life 
than  that  traversed  by  the  novel. 

While  it  has  free  access  to  these  highest  ele- 
ments of  poetry,  while  it  is  charged  with  no  cum- 
bersome, didactic  duty,  but  can  hold  itself  open  to 
the  allurements  of  pleasure,  it  is  still  possessed  of 
much  more  liberty  than  the  poem.  Criticism, 
theory,  insight,  observation  of  every  sort  can  be 
woven  into  the  narrative,  making  its  progress  in- 
structive and  brilliant.  It  is  not  held  to  the  close 
conditions  of  the  drama.  It  can  talk  of,  as  well  as 
through,  its  characters.  The  novelist,  as  a  third 
party,  can  interpret,  criticise,  open  up  on  unexpect- 
ed sides  his  personages,  cast  on  them,  and  bring 
out  of  them  every  variety  of  side-light.  At  all 
events,  this  is  the  style  of  the  English  novel,  and 
we  hold  it  to  be  the  true  liberty  of  this  prose  poetry. 
The  novelist  is  not  bound  to  evolve,  in  and  under 
his  characters  and  their  actions,  his  entire  thought, 
leaving  the  reader,  as  before  a  painting,  to  pene- 
trate and  unfold  the  conception  as  he  is  able.  The 
novelist  stands  on  more  intimate  terms  than  this 
with  his  audience.  He  is  present  in  his  own  per- 
son, in  his  own  studio,  and  may  throw  out  such 
lively  hints,  or  give  such  clues  of  thought  as  he 
thinks  best,  provided  always  that  he  keeps  all  eyes 
directed  to  the  characters  delineated,  and  unites  in 
an  easy,  livmg  way,  every  sentiment  to  their  devel- 
opment. This  personality  of  the  writer  and  pro- 
gress with  us  from  one  to  another  picture  in  his  art- 
gallery,  constitute  a  large  part  of  the  attraction  of 
the  novel.     It  moves  in  an  easier,  more  familiar 


THE    NOVEL.  271 

and  less  commanding  way  than  the  poem,  and  has 
a  thousand  chances  offered  to  say  what  is  upper- 
most. Not  merely  in  preface  and  initial  chapters, 
but  in  any  moment  of  leisure,  it  takes  up  its  readers 
on  familiar  terms  of  cheerful  gossip,  and  binds  them 
to  itself  with  new  links  of  sympathy. 

Works  of  fiction  may  be  divided  into  romances 
and  novels.  The  two  differ  from  each  other  in  the 
element  of  truth.  The  typical  novel  has  this  com- 
plete. It  adheres  to  the  line  of  characters  it  has 
chosen  to  delineate,  with  thorough  and  exact  repre- 
sentation, striving  to  make  them  clearly  drawn 
counterparts  of  those  real  persons  whom  they  rep- 
resent. The  romance  lacks  truth,  and  that  in  the 
worst  of  all  ways,  by  insensible  departures,  by  ex- 
cessive coloring,  by  glaring  and  false  lights.  The 
romance  chooses  its  characters  from  remote,  unfa- 
miliar quarters,  gives  them  a  fanciful  elevation  in 
power  and  prowess,  surrounds  them  by  novel  cir- 
cumstances, verges  on  the  supernatural  or  passes 
its  limits,  and  makes  much  of  fictitious  sentiments, 
such  as  those  which  characterized  chivalry.  The 
poor,  sensational  novel  has  points  of  close  union 
with  the  earlier  romance,  represented  by  Walpole 
in  The  Castle  of  Otranto. 

It  is  against  the  romance  element,  ever  likely 
to  appear  in  historical  novels,  as  it  appears  in  history 
itself,  when  it  runs  like  a  child  after  the  glittering 
march  and  sonorous  sounds  of  war,  that  most  of 
the  moral  objections  to  works  of  fiction  hold.  Un- 
reality, giddy  show,  easy  victory,  the  sensuous 
gliding  on  of  a  dream,  are,  indeed,  most  enei  vating 


2/2     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

to  the  moral  nature,  and  evaporate  the  sweet, 
genuine  sentiments  of  the  heart  in  a  dry,  hot, 
peevish  and  indolent  atmosphere.  The  novel,  so 
far  as  it  adheres  to  truth,  and  treats  of  life  broadly, 
descending  to  the  lowest  in  grade,  deeply  and  with 
spiritual  forecast,  seeing  to  the  bottom,  is  not  only 
not  open  to  these  objections,  but  rather  calls  for 
the  reverse  commendation. 

The  novel  is  divisible  into  two  general  kinds, 
the  pictorial  and  the  ethical.  Pictorial  novels  may 
be  subdivided  into  four  kinds  :  those  which  deline- 
ate, under  historic  characters,  the  traits  of  a  nation  ; 
those  which  give  renewed  life  to  a  period  present  or 
remote  ;  those  which  present  a  particular  rank  in 
society  ;  or  a  particular  calling  in  life  :  or  historical, 
descriptive,  social  and  professional  novels.  Ethical 
novels  may  be  divided  in  two  classes  :  those  which 
enforce  some  especial  reform  ;  and  those  which  offer 
a  general  study  of  character :  or  reformatory  and 
creative  novels.  No  novel  is  purely  of  one  kind. 
They  are  classified  by  predominant  features.  The 
most  strictly  historic  novel  will  still  present  a  study 
of  characters,  and  may  offer  a  good  epitome  of  the 
manners  of  a  particular  period  or  of  a  certain  rank. 
Yet  most  works  of  fiction  are  constructed  under 
such  definite  aims  as  to  assign  them  readily,  by 
predominant  tendency,  to  one  or  other  of  these 
classes.  We  see  from  what  quarter  the  light  enters 
the  picture,  the  rays  come  in  aslant  from  left  or 
right. 

Of  historic  novels,  many  of  the  works  of  Walter 
Scott,  as  Kenihvorth,  afford  an  example      Of  nov- 


THE   NOVEL.  273 

els  presenting  a  particular  period,  or  descriptive 
novels,  the  Hypatia  of  Kingsley  offers  an  illustra- 
tion. Of  the  social  novel,  bringing  forward  a  given 
grade  of  social" life,  Mansfield  Park  and  Emma,  by 
Miss  Austen,  may  be  adduced  as  instances.  Of 
professional  novels,  having  also  a  national  and  his- 
torical cast,  we  find  examples  in  the  nautical  tales 
of  England,  as  those  of  Marryat.  Pictorial  novels 
have  all  an  historic  character,  though  the  word,  his- 
torical, is  more  strictly  applied  to  those  works  of 
fiction  in  which  historic  characters  appear,  thus 
giving  the  closest  attachment  of  the  narrative  to 
history.  This  use  of  one  or  more  historic  names, 
may,  after  all,  be  a  secondary  feature,  and  the  real 
historic  element  be  found  in  the  care  and  exactness 
with  which  imaginary  facts  reflect  in  their  form  real 
ones.  This  they  may  do  very  imperfectly  under 
the  most  familiar  historic  names,  and  very  perfectly 
without  such  names.  That  novel  is  truly  historic 
which  puts  us  in  living  contact  with  a  given  phase 
of  national  life.  The  pictorial  novel  is  always  pri- 
marily presentative  in  its  character  whichever  of 
the  forms  it  takes. 

The  ethical  novel  belongs  to  a  higher  class  than 
the  pictorial  novel.  It  presupposes  this,  and  adds 
something  to  it.  It  seeks  historic  truth,  but  more 
than  historic  truth.  It  renders  life,  and  at  the  same 
time  renders  in  it  some  of  its  deeper  lessons.  It 
translates  it  into  an  earnest  spiritual  language.  It 
is  not  content  with  facts,  near  or  remote,  with  living 
and  veritable  persons.  Like  advanced  history,  it 
hankers  after  the  philosophy  of  these  facts,  and  gives 
12* 


2/4    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

them  a  definite  drift  in  solution  of  some  of  its  own 
theories,  or  ideals,  or  impressions  of  society.  When 
this  is  done  in  a  limited  way,  in  the  enforcement  of 
a  particular  phase  of  progress,  we  have  the  reform- 
atory novel,  of  which  the  Caleb  Williams  of  God- 
win, a  writer  very  deeply  imbued  with  the  liberal 
and  progressive  spirit,  is  an  early  example ;  and 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  by  Mrs.  Stowe,  a  recent  one. 
The  narrative,  however  life-like  and  real,  is  made 
to  offer  a  constant  mirror  to  certain  conditions  of 
society  for  the  sake  of  the  censure  and  the  senti- 
ments thus  elicited.  A  reformatory  and  satirical 
purpose  thus  runs  through  the  works  of  Dickens, 
sufficient,  in  some  instances,  to  classify  the  novel,  as 
in  Bleak-House  and  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

The  second  ethical  novel,  the  highest  novel, 
that  of  character,  makes  a  study  of  human  life,  not 
so  definitely  in  the  interest  of  any  one  reform,  but 
penetratively  and  profoundly,  in  view  of  its  many 
issues.  This  novel  is  most  strictly  ethical,  as  is  all 
composition  which  deals  searchingly  with  the  human 
heart.  It  cannot  fail  to  have  a  decided  moral  flavor. 
Dombey  and  Son  by  Dickens,  Vanity  Fair  by 
Thackeray,  Romola  and  Middlemarch  by  Mrs.  Lew- 
es, are  illustrations.  This  ethical  tendency,  this  pre- 
dominance of  character,  human  character,  the  seat 
of  moral  life  in  its  thousand  phases,  each  as  cer- 
tainly ethical  as  it  is  rational,  is  the  leading  index 
of  power  in  the  novelist. 

All  the  kinds  of  fiction  of  which  we  have  spoken 
are  good  or  bad,  as  they  disclose  discreetly  and  in- 
tuitively, under  the  drift  of  the  writer's  feeling,  char- 


THE    NOVEL.  2/5 

acter.  This  is  the  crowning  quality,  and  the  novel 
IS  poor  without  it.  In  whatever  class,  therefore, 
the  particular  work  of  fiction  may  stand,  it  ap- 
proaches this  last  class  according  to  its  excellence  ; 
and  if  no  one  feature  is  so  predominant  in  it  as  this, 
then  it  falls  to  this  highest  division.  Thus,  Romola 
by  Mrs.  Lewes,  though  an  historic  novel  in  one  as- 
pect, and  a  descriptive  one  in  another,  is  rather  an 
ethical  novel,  so  pre-eminently  is  it  a  study  of  char- 
acter, of  human  nature  in  its  deep  and  permanent 
bearings.  To  return  to  a  former  comparison,  the 
landscape,  always  the  same,  owes  its  transient  ex- 
pressions to  the  light  and  mist  and  clouds,  the  float- 
ing unbraided  beams  of  morning,  the  intense,  accu- 
mulated splendor  of  broken  storm-clouds,  or  the 
brilliant  long-lined  cirri  of  evening,  fading,  trem- 
bling into  night.  If  one  of  these  effects  is  singled 
out  and  strongly  treated,  it  classifies  the  picture 
more  than  the  fields,  woods,  mountains,  which  lie 
under  this  play  of  the  heavens  upon  them.  Yet, 
there  is  always  the  scene  itself  to  be  studied,  and 
so  presented,  that  while  we  have  no  hesitancy  in 
discerning  the  wonderful  lights  and  shades  at  work 
in  it,  these  are  all  woven  into  the  landscape  itself, 
and  find  their  utterance  through  it. 

A  relativ'ely  cheap  excellence  in  the  novel,  are 
the  surprises,  doublings  and  rapid  evolutions  of  the 
plot.  To  be  hurried  on  by  events,  and  exhilarated 
by  the  mere  swiftness  of  the  current  as  it  glides  into 
the  lapids,  is  a  child's  pleasure,  and  one  that  with- 
draws the  eye  sensibly  from  those  many  beauties, 
near  and  remote,  which  make  the  voyage  profitable. 


2/6     THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

and  cause  it  to  linger  in  the  memory  as  if  we  had 
floated  down  a  stream  on  whose  enchanted  shores 
were  grouped,  with  strange  disclosure  and  divina- 
tion, things  past  and  things  to  come.  A  novel  of 
adventure  is  a  boy-book,  and  when  we  hasten  on 
under  the  excitement  of  a  story,  a  temper  of  weak 
and  boyish  curiosity  overtakes  us.  The  ethical 
novel  implicates  its  events  in  its  characters,  and 
gives  them  intensity,  as  we  impart  meaning  to  com- 
mon words,  by  the  impulse  put  in  them.  The  great 
novelist  finds  a  tendency  to  cling  close  to  ordinary 
life  for  it  is  events  like  these  that  are  daily  unlock- 
ing the  souls  of  men,  and  startling  circumstances 
serve  to  divert  attention  from  character,  to  confuse, 
prejudice  and  overbear  its  development.  The  child, 
playing  by  the  pond,  scarcely  thinks  of  the  wind 
and  the  water  in  their  constant  fellowship  and  won- 
derful interplay,  so  interested  is  he  in  the  imme- 
diate fortunes  of  his  little  vessel,  its  freightin-g,  its 
voyage,  and  its  wreck.  In  like  manner,  to  mere 
sport,  does  the  feeble  novelist  reduce  the  events  of 
life,  starting  his  characters,  like  mimic  boats,  with 
rudders  fixed  for  the  farther  shore,  righting  them 
with  the  power  of  a  superior  deity  under  the  squalls 
and  mishaps  of  the  voyage,  and  directing  the  eye 
always  to  the  outside  action  of  these  empty  nonde- 
scripts, and  the  gallant  way  in  which  they  reach  the 
predetermined  port. 

There  is  no  more  profound,  philosophical  and 
moral  study  than  that  of  the  novelist,  when  he  con- 
ceives a  character,  puts  it  in  action  and  into  inter- 
action with  other  spiritual  entities,  like  and  unlike 


THE    NOVEL.  2'J^ 

itself;  sets,  as  it  were,  the  varied  currents  of  physi- 
cal, social,  intellectual  forces,  good  and  evil,  at  play 
upon  it  ;  and  then  strives  to  follow  out  results,  not 
make  them,  as  they  flow  from  the  double  and  com- 
plex causation  of  the  outer  and  inner  world,  of  the 
heavy  yet  mobile  waters  of  life,  acted  upon  by  the 
invisible  winds  that  come  stealing  forth  from  un- 
known spiritual  realms.  It  is  only  that  genius 
which  intuitively  reads,  which  intuitively  and  re- 
flectively unfolds,  characters  and  events,  that  can 
watch  over  its  creations,  and  make  them  disclose 
to  duller  minds  all  the  forces,  above  and  below, 
that  determine  their  final  haven.  It  is  because 
this  work  is  often  done  in  so  childish  a  way,  in  so 
false  and  incomplete  a  way,  in  so  wicked  a  way, 
that  the  novel  suffers  such  deserved  censure,  and 
constitutes  a  dangerous,  wasteful,  or  vulgar  literary 
element. 

No  period  has  equalled  our  own  in  this  depart- 
ment. Its  names  stand  among  the  first.  This  is 
the  era  of  fiction ;  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Bulwer, 
Charlotte  Bronte,  Mrs.  Lewes,  are  not  likely  soon 
to  be  equalled.  The  creations  of  Dickens,  out- 
lined with  a  few  strong  strokes,  almost  of  caricature, 
united  to  our  sympathies  by  the  abounding  humor 
and  humanities  of  the  author ;  the  more  carefully 
delineated,  but  less  liked  and  less  familiar  person- 
ages of  Thackeray,  often  built  up  under  the  cold 
criticism  of  the  writer,  rarely  evoked  under  his 
affection;  and  the  men  and  women  whom  George 
Eliot  brings  before  us,  full  of  physical  and  intel- 
lectual  life,  a  life  that  begets  appetites,   passions, 


2/8      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATCIRE. 

noble  impulses,  lending  itself  to  every  variety  of 
incentive,  and  disclosing  many  secret  springs  of 
conduct ;  these  are  not  soon  to  be  forgotten. 

The  novel,  moreover,  is  interesting  as  the  field 
in  which  woman  has  fought  her  first  literary  battle, 
and  won  her  first  victory.  Here,  she  stands  with 
the  foremost.  The  intuitions  of  her  nature,  her 
quick  sympathies,  and  the  lively,  searching  activity 
into  which  these  are  called  by  the  daily  conditions 
of  her  being,  have  made  this  with  her  a  favorite 
method  of  composition. 

The  newspaper,  like  the  novel,  mingles  freely 
good  and  evil  in  its  literary  results,  with  even  a 
more  decided  advantage  in  general  knowledge. 
The  quarterly  and  the  daily  stand  at  the  two  ex- 
tremes of  the  periodical  press  as  regards  time, 
and  equally  so  as  regards  matter  and  circulation. 
The  dailies  discuss  those  current  themes  which 
attach  to  the  hour,  and  few  of  which  extend  beyond 
it ;  and  present  the  ephemeral  news,  the  mere 
sheen  and  dust  of  the  marching  host.  The  quar- 
terlies cling  to  the  abstract,  theoretical,  general ; 
keep  thought  alive,  and  return  often  to  those  social, 
philosophical,  religious  principles  which  are  built 
together  as  the  framework  of  society.  The  periodi- 
cal assumes  an  evanescent  or  permanent  value  in 
proportion  as  it  approaches  the  one  extreme  or  the 
other.  The  periods  of  gestation  in  the  animal  king- 
dom are  scarcely  more  indices  of  varying  strength 
than  are  the  times  of  return  which  belong  to  serials. 
The  highest  literary  influence  falls,  perhaps,  to  the 
monthly,  equally  removed  from  the  slow  ponderous 


THE    NFWSPAPER.  2/9 

movement  of  the  review  and  the  rapid  execution  of 
the  journal. 

The  starthng  facts  concerning  the  periodical 
press,  are  quantity,  and,  this  being  considered, 
quality  and  rate  of  increase.  Though  the  review 
dates  back  to  the  opening  of  the  century,  and  the 
daily  to  a  period  a  little  earlier,  the  rate  of  increase 
has  been  so  accelerated,  that  the  influence  of  the 
newspaper  press  may  be  said  to  belong  distinctively 
to  the  last  forty  years.  In  the  United  States,  the 
circulation  was  in  1850  twenty-fold  that  of  18 10; 
in  the  next  ten  years  it  more  than  doubled,  and 
reached  in  i860  an  annual  aggregate  of  nearly 
a  thousand  million  copies.  The  years  intervening 
between  this  period  and  the  present,  have  shown 
a  corresponding  growth.  Every  age  and  class 
and  calling,  and  scientific  and  literary  taste,  have 
been  addressed,  each  with  its  own  appropriate  pub- 
lications. Our  time  not  only  stands  alone,  it  is  a 
constant  miracle  to  itself  in  its  productiveness.  It 
swarms  with  the  ephemera  of  literature,  and  only 
the  happiest  and  most  diversified  mechanical  art 
makes  possible  this  creation  and  diffusion  of  printed 
matter.  The  steam-press  is  a  royal  instrument, 
and  right  royally  gives  to  the  four  winds  all  that 
the  busy  mind  of  man  can  furnish  or  crave. 

Though  there  is  much  to  be  deprecated  in  the 
press,  though  it  imparts  a  whirl  and  dizzy  rapidity 
to  life  otherwise  unknown,  a  gossipy  and  trivial 
character  to  daily  thought  ;  though  it  drags  to  light 
much  that  should  be  left  in  darkness,  awakens  a 
prurient   curiosity,    and    confounds    notoriety   with 


280    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

fame,  yet  as  an  educating,  quickening,  propelling 
power,  it  offers  the  most  peculiar  and  pleasing  feat- 
ure of  our  time. 

It  especially  favors  the  discussion  of  social, 
reformatory  questions.  These  questions,  rife  at  the 
opening  of  our  century,  have  multiplied  with  its 
succeeding  years.  In  minor  and  graver  forms,  they 
are  constantly  coming  and  going.  The  newspaper 
press  offers  the  best  facilities  for  the  rapid  evolution 
and  solution  and  disposal  of  these  problems.  At- 
tack and  defence,  assertion  and  denial,  are  immedi- 
ate and  from  all  sides.  The  entire  community  is 
sought  out  by  these  organs  of  the  press,  and  held 
to  constant  deliberation  on  every  question  of  gener- 
al interest.  It  at  once  receives  from  every  variety 
of  temper,  of  interest  and  of  power  a  corresponding 
form  of  presentation.  The  substance  of  its  facts 
and  theories  is  rapidly  sifted  out,  and  the  results, 
as  far  as  they  are  practical  and  tangible,  speedily 
reached.  The  grades  of  intellectual  insight  repre- 
sented in  these  periodicals,  from  the  confident,  hasty 
and  bold  journal,  to  the  cautious,  conservative, 
thoughtful  review,  favor  this  result ;  each  accord- 
ing to  the  light  that  is  in  it,  taking  up,  in  one  way 
or  another,  the  discussion.  The  effect  has  been, 
that  in  England  and  America,  where  the  press  is 
rapid,  free,  prolific,  social  questions  have  lost  most 
of  their  revolutionary  power.  Any  theory,  however 
radical,  however  great  and  urgent  the  interests  in- 
volved in  it,  may  be  propounded  and  considered 
without  endangering  or  loosening  the  ties  of  society 
and  government.      The  latest  reform   in   America, 


THE    NEWSPAPER.  28 1 

vvnicli  has  cost  mobs  and  revolutions,  was  that  of 
anti-slavery,  and  this  seems  to  have  cleared  finally 
the  atmosphere  of  those  storm  elements  which 
could  not  rest  till  they  had  filled  the  heavens  from 
side  to  side  with  the  roar  of  their  ineffectual 
thunder. 

In  the  United  States,  the  census  of  i860  gave 
the  following  ratio,  expressing  the  relation  of  peri- 
odicals to  each  other,  according  to  their  avowed 
purpose.  Eighty  per  cent,  were  devoted  to  politics, 
seven  per  cent,  to  religion,  seven  to  literature,  and 
six  tc  miscellaneous  objects.  As  politics  admits  of 
a  great  variety  of  secondary  ends,  the  proportion 
of  attention  devoted  to  it  is  not  as  great  as  it  seems 
to  be.  The  political  journal  universally  unites  to  its 
partisan  purposes  the  duties  of  a  newspaper;  and 
these,  save  in  the  crises  of  politics,  are  by  far  its 
greater  labor.  It  is  the  medium  for  the  rapid  treat- 
ment of  all  passing  questions  of  general  interest, 
whether  of  a  scientific,  religious  or  social  nature. 

This  portion  of  the  press,  therefore,  more  than 
any  other,  indicates  the  force  held  in  constant  readi- 
ness to  circulate  theories,  chronicle  pertinent  facts, 
report  and  enlarge  discussion,  and  in  every  way 
keep  the  public  mind  simmering  and  seething  till 
the  moral  power  of  a  topic  is  exhausted.  Such  are 
the  physical  and  intellectual  appliances  which  a 
free  press  offers  to  social  progress,  and,  as  a  result, 
ten  years  are  frequently  more  fruitful  in  England 
and  the  United  States  of  growth,  than  whole  cen- 
turi(^s  of  an  earlier  regime.  These  two  countries 
owe  their  general  exemption  from  bloody  revolution. 


282        THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

and  that  in  connection  with  rapid  development,  to 
nothing  more  than  to  a  free,  pervasive  press,  draw- 
ing the  innocuous  thunderbolt  from  every  political 
cloud. 

The  most  delicate  questions  of  political  policy, 
social  police,  commercial  regulation,  of  education, 
of  religion,  and  the  adjustments  of  law  to  exception- 
al territorial  conditions,  as  in  Ireland,  are  constantly 
before  the  people  of  England,  and  peacefully  reach- 
ing with  each  year,  a  safer,  more  just  and  philan- 
thropic solution.  So  powerfully  have  this  diffusion 
of  intelligence  through  the  press,  this  confronting, 
quickly  and  thoroughly,  every  measure  with  the  re- 
sults which  social  experience  and  philosophy  are 
ready  to  assign  it,  this  steady  exposure  of  chronic, 
constitutional  evil,  wrought  for  progress,  that,  at  no 
time,  have  the  reformatory  forces  been  compelled  to 
heap  up  in  sheer  violence,  and  deal  physical  blows 
against  the  barriers  of  truth. 

A  second  result  of  the  newspaper  press,  is  the 
vigor  of  public  sentiment,  issuing  more  and  more 
in  its  soundness,  sobriety  and  candor.  Sprightly, 
racy,  incisive,  the  daily  and  weekly  press  must 
be  ;  this  is  with  it  a  necessity  of  existence.  Its 
best  articles  live  on  the  hurried  attention  of  a  mo- 
ment, are  sandwiched  in  between  courses  at  the 
breakfast-table,  between  items  of  business  in  an 
active  morning,  fall  to  the  moments  of  transfer  from 
place  to  place  in  lines  of  labor,  or  are  caught  by  the 
weary  eye  at  the  close  of  a  day's  toil.  To  hold  the 
time  thus  stolen,  to  improve  this  opportunity,  which 
never  returns,  to  impart  a  new,  a  sensible  force  to  a 


THE    NEWSPAFEK.  283 

mind  already  spinning  on  its  axis  like  a  wiiipped 
top,  the  editorial  must  be  quick,  decisive,  energetic. 
This  demand,  so  urgent,  will  not  seem  to  tend  at 
once  to  soundness  and  soberness  of  judgment,  but 
we  believe  that  these  qualities  are  reached,  and  in 
a  very  high  degree,  by  this  active  observation,  this 
continuous  and  protracted  meeting  of  the  varying 
problems  of  many  years. 

A  practical  sobriety  of  judgment  is  a  marked 
characteristic  of  the  English  and  American  mind, 
and  we  believe  this  is  to  be  attributed,  in  large  part, 
to  the  rapid  business  way  in  which  it  is  called  on 
to  meet  and  answer  the  many  questions  of  the  hour. 
The  most  eccentric  judgment,  the  most  remote 
theories  are  found  with  those  pre-eminently  spec- 
ulative. The  mind  dwelling  by  itself,  suffering 
little  contradiction,  and  giving  optical  clearness  and 
enlargement  to  its  own  speculations,  is  the  one  that 
wanders  farthest  from  soundness,  breadth  and 
sobriety  of  opinion.  Extreme  as  are  many  of  the 
statements  current  in  the  press,  increasing  insight 
and  reliability  of  judgment  fall  to  the  veteran 
journalist.  Like  the  business  man  of  many  years  and 
many  complexities,  he  hits  easily  and  quickly  on  the 
practically  safe  course,  on  the  average  chances. 
The  sins  of  extravagance  and  chimera  come  back 
so  often  and  so  surely  to  vex  the  guilty  for  their 
correction  and  the  correction  of  the  public  ;  journal- 
ism so  strengthens  the  general  memory,  and  so  often 
confronts  to-day  with  yesterday,  the  events  of  this 
year  with  the  theories  of  last,  that  sobriety  of 
opinion   and  practical  prudence,  become,  more  and 


284      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ExVGLISH    LITERATURE. 

more,  the  criteria  of  power.  English  journals  are  as 
remarkable  for  the  sober,  sure-footed  principles  they 
bring  to  every  passing  phase  of  lite,  as  tor  the 
testy,  vigorous  way  in  which  they  are  applied.  Wis- 
dom, which  takes  the  form  of  a  wide-reaching  sa- 
gacity, is  an  offspring  of  journalism  in  an  intelli- 
gent, thoughtful  community.  The  severe  and  con- 
stant criticism  to  which  journals  are  wont  to  subject 
each  other  tends  to  the  same  result,  brings  home 
every  mistake,  and  furnishes  the  strongest  motives 
for  its  correction. 

This  vigor  and  temperance  of  thought  issue 
also  in  candor.  Notwithstanding  all  the  political 
abuse  prevalent,  no  period  has  approached  our  own 
in  candor.  The  numberless  occasions  for  minor  and 
larger  differences,  the  rapid  changes  which  public 
sentiment  undergoes,  and  the  many  instances  in 
which  unexpected  conclusions  are  reached,  concur 
to  secure  caution  of  statement  and  candor  of  advo- 
cacy, whatever  the  truth  defended.  We  doubt  not, 
moreover,  that  truth  is  more  sincerely  coveted,  and 
more  quietly  enforced  now  than  hitherto,  when  the 
search  for  it  is  so  free  and  uncontrolled,  and  the  re- 
sults to  be  reached  by  it  in  practical  life,  in  society 
and  in  science,  are  so  momentous.  Vigor  and  can- 
dor and  universality  of  inquiry,  do  all  that  can  be 
done  to  call  forth  in  English  society  the  penetration 
and  patience,  the  wise  demand  and  wise  conces- 
sion, which  leave  the  social  elements  to  constant 
and  peaceful  readjustment ;  nor  do  the  malice,  mis- 
representation and  falsehood  of  the  hour,  perma- 
aently  affect  the  result. 


THE    NEWSPAPER.  285 

Public  sentiment,  with  whatever  indei./endence 
and  soundness  may  belong  to  it,  finds  also,  in  times 
of  social  and  political  corruption,  its  most  vigorous 
application  to  the  prevalent  evil  through  the  press. 
Our  own  recent  history  has  served  to  bring  this 
redemptive  power  clearly  forth.  Exposures,  cen- 
sures, measures  of  redress,  incentives  to  fresh  effort 
have,  in  our  struggle  with  municipal  corruption  and 
a  wide-spread  mal-administration  in  every  branch 
of  government,  come  chiefly  from  bold,  earnest  and 
independent  journals.  These  have  rallied  and 
combined  the  people  in  each  reformatory  move- 
ment, and  held  the  common  mind  steadily  to  the 
duty  and  labor  of  correction.  Journalism,  in  some 
of  its  branches,  seems  likely  to  rank  among  the 
most  incorruptible  of  public  agents. 

This  pervasive  power  and  freedom  of  the  press 
make  popular  education  effective,  and  at  once 
soften  and  confirm  the  influence  of  the  pulpit.  With- 
out this  constant  use  and  enlargement  of  knowl- 
edge, its  mere  rudiments  are  of  little  avail,  and  the 
machinery  which  most  diligently  awakens  the  popu- 
lar mind  on  the  greatest  variety  of  themes,  and  in 
reference  to  the  most  practical  interests,  is  that  of 
the  press.  The  people  are  kept  in  movement,  are 
put  to  the  use  of  their  knowledge  by  the  newspaper 
above  all  other  agencies.  Without  this,  the  rudi- 
ments of  education  would  be  of  small  account. 

The  pulpit  is  liable  to  become  circumscribed, 
rigid  and  conventional  in  its  methods,  except  as  the 
common  mind  is  stimulated  by  other  intellectual 
considerations,  and  brings  a  somewhat  independent 


286      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

and  critical  temper  to  tlie  Sabbath's  discussions. 
The  more  stern  and  pressing  the  necessity  laid  on 
the  pulpit  for  grounding  and  regrounding  its 
strength  in  broad,  rational  and  suggestive  truth, 
the  better  for  its  permanent  hold  on  the  people. 
Its  prescriptive  power  and  privileges  are  its  greatest 
enemies,  those  which  put  its  common-sense,  its 
vigilance  and  its  piety  to  sleep.  The  pulpit  is 
helped  by  the  press  as  an  independent  rival  power  ; 
one  that  has  its  own  standards  and  brings  them  to 
bear  unsparingly. 

The  power  of  the  press  emanates  chiefly  from 
the  great  cities.  These  are  the  seats  of  its  most 
influential  organs ;  not  only  does  the  metropolitan 
journal  itself  have  the  largest  circulation,  and  that 
among  the  most  intelligent,  it  exerts  a  strong  in- 
fluence on  the  weaker  journals,  scattered  through 
the  country.  The  press,  therefore,  is  an  assertion 
of  the  intellectual  life  and  strength  of  cities,  and  a 
flowing  of  it  forth  over  all  parts  of  the  land.  The 
rusticity  and  deadness  formerly  found  in  country 
and  village  have  largely  disappeared,  and  the  re- 
mote citizen  is  put  in  daily  and  living  contact  with 
the  great  seats  of  national  activity.  There  is  thus 
a  pronounced  circulation  which  carries  the  life- 
blood  briskly  through  the  body  politic,  equalizes 
the  advantages  of  position,  knits  the  nation  together 
in  knowledge,  and  imparts  a  common  urbanity  to 
its  members. 

It  may  be  said  against  this  and  much  more  that 
may  be  urged  for  the  periodical  press,  that  it  is  in 
large  part  instrumental,  that  it  is   a  great  whisper- 


PERIODICAL    PRESS.  287 

ing  gallery,  carrying  light  things  and  scandaloua 
things  and  wicked  things  a  long  way  to  many  ears 
that  might  otherwise  happily  have  missed  of  them  ; 
that  the  press  is  often  but  the  tell-tale  mechanism 
of  disgraceful  national  gossip,  that  has  nothing 
whatever  to  recommend  it.  Granting  freely  the 
truth  of  this  and  other  accusations,  still  we  must 
remember,  that  village-gossip  is  better  than  family- 
gossip,  town-gossip  is  better  than  village-gossip, 
state-gossip  than  town-gossip,  and  national-gossip 
than  either.  Gossip  loses  something  of  its  bane- 
fulness,  obscurity  and  petty  personality  and  private 
hate  at  every  remove,  and  the  country  scandal  of  a 
low  tavern  is  as  much  more  concentrate,  vicious 
and  unclean  than  that  of  a  news-room  or  county 
paper,  as  its  range  is  more  restricted.  Simply  to 
get  men  out  of  doors,  away  from  the  trite,  stupid 
vulgarity  of  their  cronies  is  a  great  gain.  A 
national  interest  and  the  air  of  national  intelligence 
make  way  for  national  truth,  and  these  for  universal 
truth. 

It  may  also  be  urged  against  the  press,  that 
it  gives  ready  circulation  to  vice.  The  accusation 
is  most  true.  Such,  however,  is  not  the  natural 
fellowship  even  of  news,  much  less  of  popular  dis- 
cussion. Pestilence  may  fly  on  the  wings  of  morn- 
ing, but  these  more  often  distil  the  dewy  fragrance 
of  abounding  life.  Publicity  is  allied  to  light,  and 
favors  virtue.  Vice,  as  a  rule,  has  more  to  gain 
from  concealment  than  exposure.  It  settles  as  a 
miasma  in  dark  and  secluded  places,  rather  than 
on  wind-swept  slopes  under  open  heavens. 


288      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    F.NGIJSH    LITERATURE. 

The  literary  accusation  is  thought  to  lie  strongly 
against  newspaper  influence,  that  it  debauches  lan- 
guage, introducing  questionable  words  and  street- 
phrases,  passing  them  from  one  grade  of  literary 
recognition  to  another,  till,  forgetful  of  their  low 
extraction,  they  are  able  in  quiet  effrontery  to 
usurp  good  society.  Here,  too,  there  is  truth  in 
the  statement ;  but  the  fact  expressed  by  it  has 
also  its  compensations,  and  by  no  means  unim- 
portant ones.  Mere  formal  criticism,  a  cold  con- 
ventional pedantry,  the  literary  barrenness  that 
overtakes  letters  from  time  to  time,  encounter  re- 
sistance in  the  somewhat  coarse  yet  vigorous 
popular  appetite ;  and  language  is  kept  more 
flexible,  lithe  and  nervous,  than  it  otherwise  would 
be.  The  purely  literary  tendency  cannot  safely 
be  left  to  itself.  It  is  too  overwrought  and  fini- 
cal. If  it  is  wedded  to  creative  power,  well ;  but 
when  this  is  wanting,  its  place  may  be  supplied 
in  part  by  the  popular  impulse,  by  the  homely, 
changeable,  but  always  lively  service  to  which  lan- 
guage is  put  in  the  newspaper  world.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  recent  years  have  been  charac- 
terized by  a  large  number  of  critical  works  on 
the  English  language.  Some  of  our  periodicals 
assiduously  cultivate  style,  and  many  works  of 
the  present  time  could  be  pointed  out,  which 
show  a  high  popular  estimate  of  pure,  simple 
composition.  It  remains  to  be  shown  that  the 
language  has  really  been  injured  by  the  free- 
dom and  license  of  the  popular  press.  Depart- 
ure at  one    point  from  the    staidness    of  ordinary 


PERIODICAL    PRESS.  289 

labor  no  more  incapacitates  us  to  return  with 
relish  to  it  at  another,  than  does  the  raciness 
of  conversation  unfit  us  for  the  formalities  of 
sober  speech. 

One  pronounced  tendency,  which  has  been  with 
us  through  the  entire  century,  is  literary  criticism, 
bold,  fearless  criticism  in  all  departments.  This 
is  the  fruit  of  the  large  and  varied  audience 
which  the  press  gives  to  every  leading  work. 
The  world's  estimate  of  it,  the  discrepancies  of 
opinion  which  it  calls  forth,  are  as  instant  and 
inevitable  as  the  sympathetic  approval  or  censure, 
or  the  divided  feeling  that  runs  through  the 
gathered  multitude,  listening  around  a  political 
stand.  Aside  from  systematic  and  direct  criticism, 
aside  from  that  involved  in  discussion,  there  are 
many  popular  writers  who,  with  open,  inquiring 
eye,  arraign  topic  after  topic  before  them  for 
judgment.  Our  popular  novelists  are  often  of 
this  character,  Dickens,  George  Eliot,  George 
MacDonald ;  and  in  more  general  literature,  Carlyle, 
Ruskin,  Emerson.  Such  men  are  personified  criti- 
cism, who  search  all  they  see. 

The  present  diffusion  of  literature,  so  hopeful 
a  sign  to  philanthrophy,  does,  indeed,  intensify  the 
struggle  for  literary  life.  In  the  tossing  of  the 
multitudinous  waves,  much  floats  for  a  little  that 
is  of  slight  value,  and  works  that  can  ill  be 
spared  are  occasionally  engulphed,  overwhelmed 
by  things  more  trivial  but  more  buoyant.  Com- 
posite tendencies,  the  half-unconscious  conjoint 
movement    of  many    minds,    interlocked    in    thei*" 


290      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATUPvK. 

lifa,  take  the  place  of  individual  leadership,  and 
thus  the  conditions  of  progress  are  removed,  more 
and  more,  from  the  hands  of  single  men.  Some 
pictorial  interest,  some  individual  development, 
may  seem  to  be  lost  in  this  upheaval,  this  up- 
lising  of  the  masses,  this  general  diffusion  and 
stir  of  intellectual  life ;  but  an  organic,  social 
growth,  that  indicates  a  conquering  force  at  work 
freely  on  many  minds,  is  much  the  more  stable, 
and,  at  bottom,  much  the  more  stimulating  and 
spiritually  interesting,  development. 

Moreover,  the  man  of  genius  finds  this  com- 
pensation, that  his  works  and  words,  though  losing 
some  of  their  primary,  magical  force,  nevertheless 
enter  into  the  final  product  with  a  more  in-tellec- 
tual,  free,  conscious  control  than  ever  before. 
They  drop  like  living  things  among  living  things, 
and  though  their  direct,  obvious  sway  is  lost,  the 
powers  really  evoked  by  them  are  more  subtile, 
more  pervasive,  more  permanent  than  hitherto. 
He  who  possesses  the  intelligent  popular  mind,  holds 
the  highest,  deepest  dominion  that  belongs  to 
•man.  The  night  suits  well  with  auroral  flash, 
but  the  day,  in  its  accumulated  glories,  floating 
the  sun-beams  on  a  sea  of  light,  as,  many  and 
divergent,  they  lie  along  in  tranquil  strength,  is 
'A  better  image  of  social  joy  and  life. 


LECTURE   XII. 

English  Philosophy  materialistic. — Bacon,  Ilobbes. — Ctuhvorth.— 
Locke. —  SItaftesbitry,  Clarke,  Berkeley. —  Hartley,  Priestley, 
Hume,  Paley,  Fientham,  IJain. — JMackintosh,  IV/iewell. — Spencer, 
J.  Mill,  J.   S.  Mill. — Keiil,    ffamiltou,  Maitsel. — Contradiction, 

The  present  lecture  will  be  devoted  to  English 
Philosophy,  the  undercurrent  of  belief  that  has  up- 
held our  intellectual  life.  England  has  been  re- 
markable, on  the  one  side,  for  a  commercial,  prac- 
tical temper  ;  on  the  other,  for  an  earnest,  inde- 
pendent, religious  spirit.  Assiduous  traffic  and 
remote,  irresponsible  colonization  have  co-existed 
in  each  later  generation  with  earnest  piety  and 
zealous  philanthropy.  The  philosophy  of  Eng- 
land has  had  one  decided  and  growing  tendency, 
compared  with  which  every  other  development  in 
mental  science  has  been  sporadic  and  transient 
This  prevailing  drift  of  speculation  has  been  on 
the  side  of  material,  rather  than  spiritual  interests ; 
though  the  piety  of  the  nation  has  steadily  held 
it  back  in  the  national  mind  from  the  logical  con- 
clusions contained  in  it.  Religion  has  waged  a 
double  war  with  greedy  practical  tendencies  and 
stubborn  speculative  ones.  The  continuous  growth 
of  English  philosophy  has  been  materialistic, 
though  the  imputation  has  almost  always  been 
repudiated,  and  the  last  finishing  deductions  been 
forbidden. 

(291) 


292      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Let  US  understand  our  terms.  Idealism  ulti- 
mately resolves  all  facts,  phenomena,  into  mental 
states.  This  has  found  very  little  acceptance 
with  the  English.  Realism  divides,  with  the 
strongest  lines,  mental  from  physical  facts, 
and  believes  that  the  mind  has  sufficient  proof  of 
both.  This  must  needs  be  the  underlying  philos- 
ophy of  religion  and  daily  life,  though  it  has 
rarely,  aside  from  the  Scottish  school,  found  clear 
statement  in  England.  Materialism,  in  its  com- 
plete form,  identifies  mental  with  physical  facts. 

Few,  in  any  country,  have  had  the  hardihood 
to  state  and  defend  it  in  this,  its  last  position. 
From  typical  realism  to  typically  complete  mate- 
rialism, there  is  a  long  and  gentle  slope,  down 
which  English  philosophy  will  be  found,  from 
century  to  century,  slowly  sliding.  When  refusing 
with  Spencer  to  accept  either  materialism  or 
idealism,  it  is  yet  fully  open  to  the  charge  of  a 
materialistic  tendency,  because  it  is  ever  over 
laying  the  mind  with  the  laws  of  matter ;  subdu 
ing  its  true  spiritual  domain,  and  subjecting  it,  as 
conquered  territory,  to  the  principles  and  forces 
of  physical  science.  If  this  philosophy  has  not 
poured  down  headlong  like  a  river  into  the  morass 
and  lowland,  it  has  like  a  flexible,  dissolving  gla- 
cier, though  seeming  to  hang  on  the  hill-side, 
slowly  crept  hither.  The  glacier,  with  its  gelid 
stream,  turbid  with  the  debris  of  rock  it  has 
ground  to  powder  in  their  mountain  fastnesses, 
forcing  its  slow  way  to  the  fields  and  flowers 
below,    and    disappearing    as    fast    as     it    reaches 


MATERIALISTIC    TENDENCY.  293 

their  warmth  and  life,  yet  from  its  frozen,  mobile 
centre  thrusting  forward  new  masses  of  ice,  is 
a  symbol  of  the  unceasing  push  of  materialism, 
grinding  along  its  hard,  tortuous  way,  among  the 
beliefs  and  hopes  of  men. 

This  descent  of  thought  with  its  reactions  and 
exceptions,  we  wish  to  maik.  We  can  only  do 
this  clearly,  in  so  brief  a  space,  by  confining  at- 
tention to  some  central  point  in  philosophy, 
some  especially  significant  feature,  whose  position 
shall  serve  to  determine  the  changes  going  on 
about  it.  Such  a  feature  we  find  in  the  origin 
of  knowledge,  the  faculties  involved  in  knowing. 
Realism  must  hold  to  two  sets  of  powers,  one, 
which  receives  the  impressions  of  the  physi- 
cal  world,  and,  as  inseparable  therefrom,  of  the 
mind  also — since  a  sensation  has  a  double  aspect, 
pertaining  both  to  mind  and  matter,  involving 
both ;  and  another,  which  lays  hold  of,  analyzes 
and  rationally  divides  these  phenomena,  and 
attributes  each,  under  its  own  laws,  to  its  ap- 
propriate sources.  Thus  the  facts  of  a  certain 
transaction,  as,  for  instance,  the  firing  of  a  build- 
ing, are  perceptively  received.  The  mind  then 
inquires,  under  ideas  present  to  it  by  its  own 
intuitive  force,  where  it  occurred,  when  it  occurred, 
why  it  occurred,  and  the  thought-process  therein 
completes  itself.  Any  falling  off  from  this  duality 
of  the  mind,  its  passivity  and  activity,  its  power  to 
receive  and  to  use  independently,  rationally,  what  it 
receives,  is  sure  to  result  in  idealism  or  material- 
ism.    If  the  active  power  prevails,  and  the  mind  is 


294     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

set  constructively  at  its  own  mental  facts,  if  the 
power  of  logical  evolution  is  made  to  contain 
and  overrule  all  others,  till  the  material  of  thought 
is  included  in  the  forces  of  thought,  we  reach 
idealism.  If  passivity  prevails,  if  the  mind  is 
made  simply  receptive  under  the  play  of  sen- 
sations, then  we  steadily  approach  materialism. 
This  has  been  the  bias  for  centuries  of  the  Eng- 
lish school.  It  has  busied  itself  in  denying  and 
belittling  the  active,  original  faculties  of  mind, 
and  studiously  developing  those  which  turn  on 
its  sensational,  receptive  power.  We  shall  make 
this  idea — the  source  of  our  knowledge  —  the 
guiding  light  of  our  discussion.  If  we  know 
whence  our  knowledge  comes,  we  thereby  define 
what  it  is,  how  far  it  reaches,  and  the  nature 
of  the  issues  it  involves.  If  it  come  by  the 
senses  only,  all  talk  of  a  spiritual  world  is  delusive 
and  visionary. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon  was  the  pivot  on  which  English 
thought  turned  decidedly  and  finally  to  the  physical 
world.  The  movement,  as  he  proposed  it,  was 
necessary  and  most  profitable,  but,  none  the  less, 
it  was  partial.  He  directed  attention  from  deduc- 
tion to  induction,  from  the  forms  of  thought  to 
an  inquiry  into  the  very  subjects  and  objects  of 
thought.  This  effort  favored  most  decidedly  natural 
science.  It  sought  a  physical  basis  for  knowledge, 
and  opened  the  senses  as  its  chief  avenue.  See- 
ing and  hearing  became  the  conditions  for  thinking, 
and  the  external  world  suddenly  sprang  forward  in 
study  as  a  rival  to  the  mind.      This  tendency  was 


BACON.  29$ 

altogether  healthy,  healthy  for  philosophy  itself,  for 
this,  too,  needed  to  be  reinvigorated  by  a  new  hold 
on  facts.  It  is  set  down  by  us  as  the  initiative  of 
materialism  only  because  it,  in  turn,  became  exces- 
sive and  one  sided.  All  deductions  to  be  fruitful 
must  rest  on  exact  statement,  or  exact  observa- 
tion ;  and  when  the  premises  have  become  feeble, 
fluctuating,  verbal,  remote  from  the  facts  they  seem 
to  represent,  then  the  conclusions  are  futile  and  vis- 
ionary. The  galvanic  current  is  due  to  acids  in  in- 
stant action  on  metals,  a  fresh  surface  of  the  one 
must  be  exposed  constantly  to  the  dissolving  agency 
of  the  other.  So  must  thought  and  fact  stand 
in  constant,  living  reaction,  if  the  evolved  force 
is  to  be  abundant  and  effective.  The  world  in 
the  time  of  Bacon  had  few  well-established  facts, 
its  premises  were  mainly  word-facts,  and  its  reason- 
ing, hence,  idle  word  constructions,  the  chopping 
of  logic,  logomachy.  Yet  the  bent,  excellent  in 
itself,  which  thought  received  from  Bacon,  was  phys- 
ical, and  easily  became  opposed  to  true  mental 
science,  in  which  other  elements  play  so  important 
a  part. 

Hobbes  is  the  next  name  in  our  sketch,  and  in 
him  materialism  is  more  declared.  Indeed,  he 
so  far  overstepped  his  time,  and  was  so  little  able 
to  support  his  extreme  views,  that  his  influence  on 
philosophy  lingered  a  good  deal  in  rear  of  his  own 
opinions.  The  points  at  which  he  gave  a  decided 
materialistic  impulse  to  thought,  were  liberty  and 
right.  He  denied  the  applicability  of  the  notion  of 
liberty   to  the  will  itself,  and  affirmed  every  man 


296    THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE, 

free,  who  is  physically  free  to  follow  his  own 
choices.  The  choice,  itself,  like  other  activities,  is 
determined  by  the  influences  at  play  upon  it.  This, 
the  often-repeated  view  of  English  philosophy, 
doubly  favors  materialism.  It  denies,  in  its  most 
central  acts,  the  original  force,  spontaneity  of  mind ; 
traces  into  and  through  it  those  external,  physi- 
cal influences  which  act  upon  it ;  and  beholds  these 
simply  in  a  new  form  in  its  out-going  and  on-going 
action.  Thus  the  material  current  is  no  more 
stayed  in  its  flow  by  man  than  by  beast,  by  beast 
than  by  plant,  by  plant  than  by  rock.  Each  modi- 
fies it,  includes  it,  and  is  included  b^  it  in  a  more 
subtile  way  as  we  pass  upward,  that  is  all.  This 
view  also  favors  materialism,  because  the  very  idea 
of  liberty,  an  intuitive  perception,  is  denied.  Neces- 
sity and  chance,  its  opposite,  are  all  that  are  recog- 
nized, and  human  freedom,  it  is  affirmed,  must  be 
one  or  the  other  of  these. 

Hobbes,  in  morals,  adopted,  in  its  grossest  form, 
the  doctrine  of  utility.  This  doctrine,  always,  as  we 
believe,  false  in  theory,  becomes  practically  coarse 
and  unendurable,  or  proximately  elevated  and  ser- 
viceable, according  to  the  author's  estimate  of 
human  nature,  of  its  predominating  impulses,  and 
the  circle  of  its  enjoyments.  Hobbes  held  human 
nature  very  low,  and  riglrt  became  consequently 
with  him,  little  more  than  the  law  or  ravin  of  rude 
appetites,  the  eager  assertion  of  selfishness.  Here, 
again,  we  have  materialism,  not  merely  in  the 
coarseness  which  these  doctrines  assumed,  but  in 
the  denial  of  that  original,  ultimate  law  in  our  con- 


HOBBES.  297 

stitution,  the  law  of  right,  which  the  human  reason, 
by  its  own  penetration  and  with  its  own  power, 
sets  up. 

Though  the  deepening  current  of  EngHsh  phi- 
losophy, its  transmitted  and  almost  national  force, 
has  lain  in  one  direction,  there  have  always  been 
dissenting  voices,  some  of  them  of  clear  and  start- 
ling emphasis.  It  is  our  purpose  to  speak,  how- 
ever, of  the  schools  of  philosophy,  of  its  continuous 
lines  of  development,  and  to  pass,  with  slight  men- 
tion, those  side  efforts  which,  oftentimes  more 
valuable  than  the  prevailing  line  of  thought,  were 
yet  unable  to  secure  any  general  following.  It  is 
impossible  to  settle  exactly  the  degree  of  prevalence 
of  any  one  form  of  philosophy  at  any  one  time ;  we 
can  only  infer  that  those  speculative  streams,  which 
flow  steadily  on  with  enlargements  in  each  succes- 
sive generation,  do,  for  the  most  part,  draw  the 
national  mind.  Yet,  even  this  inference  is  not 
always  correct. 

Next  succeeding  Hobbes  is  Cudworth,  a  fine 
representative  of  the  dissenting  tendency.  His 
philosophy  is  Platonic  in  its  cast.  A  few  others 
labored  with  him,  and  they  represented  the  older, 
better  phases  of  thought  unsubdued  to  the  new 
temper  and  at  war  with  it. 

The  next  great  name  in  the  line  of  material- 
istic succession  is  that  of  Locke.  So  full  are  his 
works,  and  so  influential  have  they  been  both  in 
England  and  on  the  Continent,  that  modern  English 
philosophy  dates  from  him.  A  philosopher  does 
not  owe  his  position  exclusively  to  the  novelty,  or 
13* 


298     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

to  the  logical  force  of  the  views  presented,  but 
largely  to  their  acceptance  as  issuing  from  him, 
their  subsequent  reference  to  him,  and  their  historic 
connection  through  him.  Locke  gave  such  an 
enunciation  of  his  view  of  the  origin  of  knowledge, 
that  it  entered  in  a  central,  germinant  principle  of 
many  subsequent  forms  of  thought.  It  was  just  at 
this  point,  that  Locke  was  peculiarly  influential. 
His  view  became  almost  axiomatic  with  his  dis- 
ciples. The  materialistic  philosophy  followed  his 
lead,  rarely  stopping  to  rechallenge  his  premises. 
We  give  his  opinion  in  his  own  words  :  "  Let  us, 
then,  suppose  the  mind  to  be,  as  we  say,  white 
paper,  void  of  all  characters,  without  any  ideas  ; 
how  comes  it  to  be  furnished .-'  Whence  comes  it 
by  that  vast  storehouse,  which  the  busy  and  bound- 
less fancy  of  man  has  painted  on  it,  with  an  almost 
endless  variety  .-*  Whence  has  it  all  the  materials 
of  reason  and  knowledge?  To  this  I  answer  in 
one  word,  from  experience  ;  in  that  all  our  knowl- 
edge is  founded,  and  from  that  it  ultimately  derives 
'tself.  Our  observation,  employed  either  about 
external,  sensible  objects,  or  about  the  internal 
operations  of  our  mind,  perceived  and  reflected  on 
by  ourselves,  is  that  which  supplies  our  under- 
standings with  all  the  materials  of  thinking.  These 
two  are  the  fountains  of  knowledge  whence 
all  the  ideas,  we  have,  or  can  naturally  have,  do 
spring."* 

He  then  proceeds  more  definitely  to  state  the 
sources  of  knowledge  to  be  two, — sensation,  reflec- 

*  Human  Understanding,  B.  II.  chap.  i.  sec.  2, 


LOCKE.  299 

tion;  meaning  by  reflection,  the  mind's  observation 
of  its  own  acts  and  states,  now  usually  termed  con- 
sciousness. 

As  Hobbes  had  called  forth  from  Cudworth  a 
strong  declaration  of  the  inborn  conceptions  of  the 
mind,  so  he  in  turn  gave  occasion  to  a  staunch 
denial  by  Locke  of  innate  ideas,  and  this  clear  as- 
sertion of  experience  as  the  sole  ground  of  knowl- 
edge. The  struggle  thus  opened  is  not  one  merely 
of  words;  whether  "innate  ideas"  expresses  well 
or  ill  our  original  intuitive  knowledge,  but  whether 
we  have  any  such  knowledge ;  whether  mental 
states  are  not  in  their  entirety  the  primary  or  sec- 
ondary products  of  sensation.  This  Locke  affirmed 
them  to  be,  and  would  not  grant  in  thought  the 
presence  of  any  element  not  traceable  to  the  senses. 
Thus  time  and  space,  the  most  obviously  super- 
sensible of  ideas,  he  yet  refers  to  this  origin. 

The  point  was  clearly  put,  and  vigorously  de- 
fended, that  the  mind  contributes  nothing  to  the 
material  of  thought,  but  that  this  is  always  either 
directly  sensible  objects,  or  the  states  of  mind 
which  sensible  objects  have  occasioned  in  it.  The 
mind  may  occupy  itself  with  objects,  or  with  the 
sensations,  feelings,  these  objects  occasion  ;  it  can 
go  no  further.  It  were  truer  to  the  spirit  of  the 
philosophy  to  say  :  These  occupy  the  mind,  expend 
themselves  on  its  passive  powers,  and  there  repro- 
duce the  order  and  the  connections  that  are  in 
themselves.  The  image  is  orderly  and  beautiful, 
because  the  objects  are  so  which  cast  it  upon  the 
screen, — the  blank  sensorium  of  the  soul.     White 


^00      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

paper  expresses  the  maximum  power  in  the  mind 
itself.  The  fruits  of  this  philosophy  we  shall  find 
so  clearly  unfolded  at  its  next  step  of  development, 
that  we  shall  delay  their  consideration  till  that  is 
given.  It  belonged  to  Hume,  following  in  the  line 
of  succession,  to  develop  this  view  with  a  startling 
consistency  and  recklessness  of  consequences. 
Never  did  a  philosophy,  that  touched  daily  belief 
everywhere,  stand  so  at  war  with  it,  as  that  of 
Hume.  Never  did  a  philosopher  inquire  in  so 
quiet  and  indifferent  a  way,  what  are  the  conclu- 
sioiis  locked  up  in  his  premises,  and  proceed  to  open 
them,  not  stopping  to  remember,  or  seeming  to  care 
that  he  was  dealing  with  the  box  of  Pandora. 
Though  the  eye  passes  at  once  from  Locke  to 
Hume  in  the  development  of  materialism,  a  consid- 
erable period  lies  between  them,  and  demands 
some  notice,  especially  for  the  reactionary  efforts  in 
philosophy  called  out  by  the  works  of  Locke.  The 
first  of  these,  following  immediately  upon  Locke, 
was  the  effort  of  Shaftesbury  to  reassert  the  power 
of  the  mind,  and  emphasize  anew,  especially  in 
ethics,  its  contribution  to  our  judgments.  There 
is  this  change  impressed  on  the  phraseology  of  the 
realists  by  their  controversy  with  the  disciples  of 
Locke.  They  cease  to  speak  of  "  innate  ideas,"  a 
conception  which  came  from  Plato,  and  defend  the 
intuitive  powers  of  the  mind.  Samuel  Clarke  is 
next  to  be  mentioned  in  the  line  of  defense.  He 
renewed  the  a  priori  argument  for  the  being  of  God. 
Such  force  did  he  attribute  to  the  mind's  concep- 
tions that  he  thought  them  to  carry  with  them  a  suf- 


BERKELEY.  $01 

ficient  proof  of  an  external  reality,  a  view  quite  at 
war  with  the  doctrine  that  referred  all  belief  to  ex- 
perience. He  also  took  up  the  defense  of  liberty^ 
and  attempted  to  rescue  the  ethical  nature  from  the 
degradation  cast  upon  it  as  the  enforcement  of  con- 
\  entional  motives  of  interest.  He  saw  in  it  a 
power  by  which  the  mind  discerns  the  "  fitness  of 
things,"  and  enforces  it  as  a  law. 

The  most  extreme  reaction  to  the  Lockian  phi- 
losophy, is  presented  by  Berkeley.  His  point  of 
attack  was  the  connection  between  sensations  and 
the  external  objects  to  which  they  are  referred. 
The  mind  was  to  Locke  simply  the  paper  on  which 
these  images,  together  with  the  secondary  states 
which  they  called  forth,  were  received.  Thus  the 
power  of  mind  stood  at  its  minimum,  and  the  power 
of  matter  at  its  maximum. 

As,  however,  the  sensation  is  known  to  the 
mind  only  as  a  sensation,  an  image,  not  at  all  as  an 
external,  physical  fact,  Berkeley  denied  that  there 
was  present  any  sufficient  proof  of  the  being  of  this 
fact  to  which  the  sensation  had  been  so  confidently 
ascribed.  He  affirmed  that  the  sensation  is  to  the 
mind  a  first  and  final  product,  and  that  there  is  no 
going  back  of  it  to  some  material  source,  to  which 
admittedly  the  senses  can  gain  no  access.  Thus 
the  mind  was  instantly  divorced  again  from  its 
thraldom  to  matter,  and  its  own  states  were  con- 
ceived as  more  wholly  its  own,  and  of  a  more  truly 
spiritual  nature  than  ever  before.  This  was  an 
adroit  turning  of  the  flank  of  the  enemy  ;  but  it 
gave  entrance  to  idealism,  so   uncongenial  to   Eng- 


302     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

lish  thought.     It  beat  clown  the  old  difficulties  only 
to  raise  up  as  many  more  new  ones. 

Such  was  the  resistance  offered  to  materialism  in 
the  period  between  Locke  and  Hume.  It  was 
straggling  in  its  character,  and  tended  rather  to  the 
more  rapid  unfolding  of  the  obnoxious  view  than  to 
its  arrest.  In  the  progress  of  materialism  itself,  we 
are  brought  up  to  the  time  of  Hume,  of  Hartley 
and  Priestley.  Hartley  was  a  little  earlier  than 
Hume,  and  Priestley  a  little  later.  Hartley's  con- 
tribution was  made  in  connection  with  the  associa- 
tion of  ideas.  This  subject  had  been  treated  by 
Locke,  but  Hartley  gave  it  an  enlargement,  a  rigid 
■physical  development,  that  made  it  henceforth  a 
characteristic  doctrine  of  materialism. 

If  all  the  material  of  thought  is  furnished  to  the 
mind,  thought  itself,  it  might  be  said,  remains.  It  is 
the  mind,  after  all,  that  analyzes,  compares,  unites 
this  material,  and  builds  it  together  in  the  rational 
structures  of  thought.  This  power  of  the  mind  to 
institute  and  order  its  own  processes  became  the 
point  on  which  the  attack  was  now  opened  by 
Hartley.  Not  only  is  the  material  of  thought  given 
it,  the  very  nature  and  flow  of  that  thought,  it  was 
said,  is  determined  by  the  external  connections  of 
the  things  which  ideas  represent.  Objects  come 
to  the  mind  in  sensation,  already  grouped  in  place 
and  time.  The  repetition  of  a  sensation,  inducing 
in  each  instance  a  like  physical  activity  of  the  brain 
as  its  condition,  tends  to  make  that  activity  in  its 
completeness  easy  and  natural  to  the  organization 
which  is  subject  to  it.     Such  a  sensation,  returning 


HARTLEY.  3O3 

to  the  mind  without  the  presence  of  the  external 
object,  through  this  easy  proclivity  to  it  already 
induced  in  the  nervous  centres  by  its  frequent  repe- 
tition, is  an  act  of  imagination ;  if  immediately  asso- 
ciated in  the  mind  v^ith  its  previous  presence,  it 
becomes  an  act  of  memory.  To  the  mind  as  blank 
paper  there  is  now  added  a  receptive,  retentive 
repeating  power. 

But  these  first  associations  of  objects  are  not 
stable.  The  same  object  reappears  in  many  ex- 
ternal connections.  The  varying  history  of  the  in- 
dividual serves  also  to  unite  objects  in  many 
internal  collocations  of  thought  and  of  feeling. 
Moreover,  one,  two,  three  or  four  intervening 
objects  may  be  dropped,  and  the  remainder  form  a 
new  secondary  union,  and  thus  with  flexible  condi- 
tions the  juxtaposition,  the  association,  of  objects, 
is  constantly  varied,  and  weaker  and  stronger  con- 
nections of  every  grade  of  intensity  are  formed 
between  them.  Ideas  thus  become,  through  ex- 
ternal connections,  through  past  dependencies, 
through  accidental  conjunctions,  united  in  various 
ways  in  the  mind,  and  there,  in  connection  with 
their  repeated  appearance,  gain  a  certain  deter- 
minate power  over  it,  by  a  tendency  fastened  on 
the  brain  to  renew  its  previous  states.  If  by  the 
force  of  a  new  sensation,  any  one  of  these  ideas  is 
plucked  at,  it  comes  up  from  the  depths  of  the 
mind,  like  a  net  secured  by  a  single  strand,  draw- 
ing after  it  many  others,  through  various  lines  of 
attachment.  These  connections  have  all  been 
woven  into  the  material  of  thought  by  the  swift  un- 


304      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

observed  shuttle  of  past  events,  and  hence  the 
mind  is  no  more  indebted  to  itself  for  the  flow  of 
its  thought,  and  the  junction  of  particular  ideas, 
than  is  a  river  to  some  presiding  deity  that  con- 
gregates, disperses  and  arranges  its  particles.  Here 
was  a  long  stride  toward  materialism. 

A  German  or  Frenchman  would  have  readily 
and  quickly  taken  the  shorter  steps  that  remain,  but 
the  English  mind  is  religious,  practical,  and  will 
hold  stolidly  fast  on  the  steepest  declivities,  if  a  flat 
denial  of  the  ordinary  truths  of  life  and  morality 
must  accompany  the  descent.  Priestley,  in  farther 
expanding  this  view  of  Hartley's,  could  talk  of  God 
and  duty,  when  the  words  were  scarcely  more  appli- 
cable to  his  psychological  mechanism  than  to  a 
power-loom. 

Hume,  by  far  the  greatest,  and  by  far  the  most 
unscrupulous,  philosopher  in  this  school  of  thought, 
was  retarded  by  no  such  outside  considerations. 
With  a  singularly  clear  and  quiet  mind,  never  to  be 
abashed  by  its  own  conclusions,  he  ripened  and 
made  to  burst  forth  as  in  a  single  summer  day,  the 
thousand  winged  seeds  of  mischief  that  lay  hid  in 
this  one  pregnant  pod, — this  composite  thistle-head, 
— that  all  knowledge  is  the  product  of  experience. 

We  shall  give  concisely  the  leading  propositions 
of  the  system  of  Hume  in  their  order  of  dependence. 
We  do  this  because  of  its  logical  completeness,  its 
central  position  and  historical  value  in  English 
philosophy.  Opposed  and  concurrent  systems  have 
alike  been  shaped  by  it.  Hume  restates  the  doctrine 
o(  Locke  as  recrards  the  orierin  of  knowledge  in  this 


HUME.  305 

lom.  The  phenomena  of  mind  are  divisible  into 
impressions  and  ideas.  "  The  difference  betwixt 
these  consists  in  the  degrees  of  force  and  HveHness 
with  which  they  strike  upon  tlie  mind.""-'  Impres- 
sions include  sensations,  emotions  ;  ideas,  "the  faint 
images  of  these  in  thinking."  His  fundamental 
proposition  is  that  all  ideas  are  "  derived  from  im- 
pressions which  are  correspondent  to  them,  and 
which  they  exactly  represent."f  "  All  our  ideas  are 
copied  from  our  impressions. "^I  Thus  Hume  makes 
those  impressions,  which  we  attribute  to  the  exter- 
nal world,  echo  and  re-echo  themselves  in  the  mind, 
and  these  first  voices  with  their  receding,  fainting 
responses,  are  all  the  facts  of  mental  science. 
Hence,  as  a  first  conclusion,  space  and  time  are  not 
distinct  ideas,  but  "  merely  of  the  manner  or  order 
in  which  objects  exist."§  Space  and  time  as  we 
accept  them  are  flatly  denied,  and  they  are  identi- 
fied with  that  order  which  they  in  fact  impart  and 
explain.  Other  conceptions  are  pushed  aside  in 
like  fashion.  "  The  idea  of  existence  is  the  very 
same  with  the  idea  of  what  we  conceive  to  be  ex- 
istent."||  "  We  have  no  other  notion  of  cause 
and  effect  but  that  of  certain  objects,  which  have 
always  been  conjoined  together."^  In  this  fashion 
is  all  the  original  furniture  of  the  mind  disposed  of, 
and  it  is  left,  swept  and  garnished,  for  the  unob- 
structed entertainment  in  reflection  and  re-reflection, 
of  those  images  which  date  their  origin  from  sen- 
sation only.     The  next  weighty  conclusion,  there- 

*  Hume's  Philosophical  Works,  vol  i.  p.  15.  f  Ibid.,  p.  18. 

X  Ibid.,  p.  99.     §  Ibid.,  p.  60.     |  Ibid.,  p.  92.     ^  Ibid.,  p.  124. 


306      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

fore,  is  that  "  all  reasoning  consists  in  nothing  but 
comparisons,"*  an  observation  of  the  agreement  or 
disagreement  of  these  fleeting  impressions.  At  this 
point  it  is,  that  the  theory  of  Hartley  helps  out  that 
of  Hume,  for  impressions  by  their  very  association, 
their  reiterations,  are  made  to  compare  themselves  ; 
to  sort,  locate  and  put  themselves  into  union,  like 
boulders,  gravel  and  sand  in  a  river-bed. 

The  next  deduction  is  still  more  striking.  Be- 
lief turns  upon  the  liveliness  of  the  impression  and 
hence  of  the  idea.  "  Belief  is  nothing  but  a  strong 
and  lively  idea  derived  from  a  present  impression 
related  to  it."f  Hume  is  thus  led  to  admit  that 
belief  is  a  thing  of  sensation  rather  than  of  thought. 
In  his  own  words,  "  Belief  is  more  properly  an 
act  of  the  sensitive  than  of  the  cogitative  part  of  our 
nature.''^  A  good  echo  is  audible,  a  weak  one  is 
not ;  a  lively  idea  is  believable,  a  feeble  one  is  not. 
The  mind  has  no  more  agency  in  its  own  beliefs, 
than  the  ear  in  the  sounds  it  receives  ;  a  clear 
voice  can  be  heard,  an  obscure  one  cannot.  The 
notion  of  continued,  distinct,  external  existence,  as 
•  that  of  our  own  personal  identity,  is  due  entirely 
to  the  imagination.  This  acquires  a  certain  ten- 
dency, a  kind  of  momentum,  by  which  it  reproduces 
objects  not  present  in  sensation,  and  leads  us  to 
believe  therefore  in  their  continuous  being.  The 
upshot  of  this  system  is  absolute  skepticism.  For 
nothing  is  a  subject  of  belief,  that  is  not  at  the 
moment  vividly  impressed  on  the  mind,  and  every- 

*  Hume's  Philosophical  Works,  vol.  i.  p.  loo. 

f  Ibid.,  p.  140.  t  1^'tl-  P-  233- 


GROUNDS    OF    BELIEF.  307 

thing  that  chances  to  be  so  impressed,  is  worthy,  at 
least  for  the  moment,  of  acceptance.  BeUef  neces- 
sarily shifts  like  the  shadows  of  each  passing  day. 
The  noonday  light  of  belief, — that  is,  of  vivid  impres- 
sion,— travels  round  and  round  the  earth,  but  it 
tarries  nowhere  ;  and  each  position  is  in  turn  over 
taken  by  the  darkness  and  shadows  that  follow  hard 
in  the  rear.  Argument,  knowledge,  is  a  barren 
transfer  of  the  mind  from  point  to  point  ;  the  men- 
tal, like  the  physical,  eye  takes  in  new  views  only 
to  lose  old  ones.  He  says,  "  The  skeptic  still  con- 
tinues to  reason  and  believe,  even  though  he 
asserts  that  he  cannot  defend  his  reason  by  rea- 
son."* The  weary  traveller  travels  by  a  fatality 
of  unrest  without  hope  or  real  joy.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  candor  of  Hume's  conclusions.  He  says, 
"  I  have  already  shown  that  the  understanding, 
when  it  acts  alone  and  according  to  its  most  gener- 
al principles,  entirely  subverts  itself,  and  leaves  not 
the  lowest  degree  of  evidence  in  any  proposition, 
either  in  philosophy  or  common  life.  We  save 
ourselves  from  this  total  skepticism  only  by  means 
of  that  singular  and  seemingly  trivial  property  of 
the  fancy  by  which  we  enter  with  difficulty  into  re- 
mote views  of  things. "f  That  is  to  say,  the  vivid- 
ness of  ideas  is  constantly  changing,  therefore 
nothing  is  worthy  of  permanent  belief.  We  must 
give  ourselves  in  floating  fancies  to  the  impression 
uppermost,  and  lucky  is  it  that  we  drift  on  so  very 
slowly.  Out  of  this  fortunate  sluggishness  of  our 
faculties,  by  which  they  hold  at  least  for  a  little  the 

*  Hume's  Philosophical  Works,  vol.  i.  p.  237.       f  Ibid,,  p.  330. 


308      THE    I'HILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

impressions  made  on  them,  spring  the  congruity  and 
order  of  daily  life ;  near  and  passing  impressions 
having  this  advantage,  that  they  are  at  harmony 
with  themselves.  We  are  indebted  to  our  dulness 
for  what  we  seem  to  know.  Hume  touches  on  his 
own  feelings  under  these  irrefragable  deductions, 
"  The  intense  view  of  these  manifold  contradictions 
and  imperfections  in  human  reason,  has  so  wrought 
upon  me,  and  heated  my  brain,  that  I  am  ready  to 
reject  all  belief  and  reasoning,  and  can  look  upon 
no  opinion  even  as  more  probable  or  likely  than 
another."*  His  farther  pursuit  of  philosophy  was 
a  mere  matter  of  pleasure,  therefore,  and  diversion. 
Plume  did  not  stop  with  these  purely  speculative 
results  ;  he  touched  on  all  sides  practical  questions, 
the  immateriality  of  the  soul,  miracles,  future  life. 
He.  denies  the  possible  proof  of  miracles,  legitimate- 
ly enough  from  one  view  of  his  doctrine,  strangely 
enough  from  another.  He  starts  with  referring  all 
knowledge  to  experience,  this  knowledge,  in  its  most 
solid  form,  a  miracle  contradicts ;  very  well,  but  has 
not  our  philosophy  issued  in  the  conclusion  that  all 
belief  is  a  question  of  liveliness  of  ideas .''  Those, 
therefore,  who  accept  miracles,  show  by  this  very 
fact  a  belief  grounded  on  ideas  sufficiently  vivid  to 
occasion  it,  and  thus  to  justfy  them  in  it.  Thus 
Hume  cannot  be  more  rational  in  denying  miracles 
under  his  ideas,  than  are  his  opponents  in  accepting 
them  under  the  impression  present  to  their  minds. 
In  short,  a  philosophy  that  makes  it  absurd  to  hold 
fast  to  any  conclusion,  cannot  destructively  criticise 

*  Hume's  Philosophical  Works,  vol.  i.  p.  331. 


HUME.  309 

any  opinion  ;  for  one  opinion  is  at  least  as  good  as 
another,  and  vindicates  its  right  to  be  by  the  mere 
fact  that  it  exists.  That  I  hear  a  voice,  proves  to  me 
the  being  of  the  voice. 

The  practical  conclusions  of  Hume's  philosophy, 
self-destructive  as  they  were,  were,  nevertheless, 
very  nettlesome  to  the  religious  and  philosophical 
world,  and  called. forth,  on  the  one  side,  farther  ex- 
pansion, and,  on  the  other,  more  systematic  attack. 
We  will  turn  first  to  affiliated  views.  It  may  be 
asked,  why  should  the  system  of  Hume,  and  those 
systems  in  continuation  of  his,  be  called  materialis- 
tic, when  they  do  not  so  much  as  decide  on  the 
existence  of  the  external  world  ?  We  answer,  be- 
cause their  whole  constructive  force  is  derived  from 
the  sensational  side  of  our  being.  Sensations,  which 
represent  matter  and  material  law,  control  mind, 
completely  subordinate  it  to  the  fixed,  necessary 
forces  or  tendencies  contained  in  them.  This  is 
the  sense  in  which  we  say  of  Hume,  of  Spencer, 
they  are  materialistic. 

In  ethics,  the  utilitarian  view  has  been  defended 
by  Paley,  Bentham,  Bain.  Paley  was  an  able 
writer  on  the  proofs  of  Christianity,  yet  bases  his 
ethical  system  on  the  skeptical,  materialistic  view 
of  obligation.  He  found  in  his  spiritual  philos- 
ophy, no  higher  inspiration,  no  weightier  law  for  the 
duties  of  ordinary  life,  than  came  to  Hume  in  abso- 
lute unbelief,  generalizing  a  transient  law  of  action, 
from  the  unsubstantial  fleeting  facts  afloat  about 
him, — the  gains  and  losses  that  fall  to  us  under 
them.     The   belief  and  unbelief  of  England  often 


3IO      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Strike  hands  on  this  question  of  morals,  intimate  as 
it  is  to  daily  life  and  character. 

Bentham  is  most  remarkable  for  bold,  dogged 
assertion,  English-wise.  One  might  think  the 
question  of  the  foundation  of  obligation  in  morals 
had  ceased  to  his  mind  to  be  one  of  abstruse  in- 
quiry, and  was  regarded  as  a  point  involving  good 
sense  and  veracity,  to  be  disposed  of  by  positive 
averment,  so  contemptuous  is  he  of  his  adversary. 
He  settles  the  question  as  one  Englishman  says  of 
another,  with  "  a  masculine,  muscular,  graphic,  nar- 
row, thick-headed  ability." 

Bain  is  the  latest,  most  elaborate  and  thorough 
defender  of  utilitarian  morals. 

His  works  are  to  be  read  with  great  advantage, 
though  the  reading  should  be  accompanied  with 
the  most  complete  dissent.  English  morals,  though 
muddy  and  murky  with  the  soiled  sediment  of  self- 
interest,  have  their  commercial  value.  The  river 
Thames,  vexed  and  turbid,  though  not  much  as  a 
mirror  of  the  heavens,  floats  a  deal  of  shipping,  and 
is  every  way  a  godsend  to  trade.  English  philoso- 
phy has  worked  hard  at  the  utilities  involved  in 
ethics.  Yet,  it  is  a  pity  that  one's  home  should  be 
lighted  with  ground-glass,  not  because  he  cannot 
thus  see  the  dinner  on  his  table,  but  because  he 
loses  the  long  range  of  vision  of  the  outside  world. 
A  law  of  morals  that  is  deduced  shrewdly  from  pas- 
sing events  may  give  a  good  deal  of  successful 
guidance  in  daily  life,  but  we  cease  to  discover  in 
it  the  far-reaching  light  of  eternity.  .Esthetics 
has   shared  these  sensual  limitations  of  ethics  in 


MORALS.  311 

England,  and  beauty  has  become,  as  to  Jeffrey  and 
Alison,  the  fruit  of  associations  fleeting  and  acci- 
dental. 

The  opposite  view  of  morals  has  also  had  its 
defenders,  but  their  works  have  been  less  united, 
less  the  part  of  a  system,  and  have  possessed 
secondary  power  over  the  national  mind,  at  least 
as  represented  in  the  agents  of  progress.  Chief 
among  these  defenders,  should  be  put  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  and  of  later  writers,  Whewell.  The 
former  had  the  support  which  sprang  from  his  con- 
nection with  Scottish  philosophy,  the  only  contin- 
uous speculation,  aside  from  materialism,  that  con- 
stitutes, on  British  soil,  a  school. 

The  philosophy  of  Hume  has  found  its  line  of 
descent  to  our  own  time  through  James  Mill,  John 
Stuart  Mill,  and  Spencer.  The  philosophy  of 
Spencer  is  essentially  an  independent,  vigorous  re- 
construction and  re-argumentation  of  the  doctrines 
of  Hume;  though,  it  must  be  said,  with  far  more 
belief  and  consequently  with  far  more  momentum. 
The  novelty  of  impression  which  begot  such  skep- 
ticism of  his  own  conclusions  in  the  mind  of  Hume, 
seems,  in  consistency  with  the  theory  that  iteration 
breeds  conviction,  to  have  disappeared  on  farther 
familiarity,  and  the  assertions  of  Spencer  have  ap- 
parently a  very  sufficient  and  undoubted  hold  on 
his  own  mind.  Every  reader  of  the  two  philoso- 
phies must  be  struck  with  their  general  identity, 
and  with  the  fact  that  the  germ  of  the  one  is  wholly 
contained  in  the  other ;  and  yet  with  this  great  di- 
versity of  conviction  between  them.     Their  agree- 


312      THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

ment  is  not  the  general  agreement,  that  both  refer 
knowledge  to  experience,  but  a  close  correspond- 
ence  of  secondary  propositions.  Thus,  the  evolu- 
tion of  the  ideas  of  space  and  time  is  similar, 
though  the  discussion  of  Spencer  is  more  patient 
and  complete.  Their  resolution  of  all  knowledge 
into  resemblance  is  the  same ;  also  their  reference 
of  belief  to  what  may  be  called  the  sensational, 
physical  hold  of  ideas  on  the  mind ;  their  assertion 
of  an  inability  to  affirm  anything  of  the  existence  of 
the  external  world,  of  mind  and  of  God,  or  of  the  na- 
ture of  any  of  them.  Both  alike  deal  only  with  im- 
pressions, and  the  ideas  or  states  of  mind  directly 
consequent  upon  them,  and  thus  wholly  identify 
physical,  social,  mental  events  in  their  evolution, 
their  law  of  progress.  To  this  evolution  Spencer 
has  devoted  much  time  in  very  fruitful  labors, 
and  has  chiefly  used  his  philosophy  as  an  in- 
strument in  this  field  of  inquiry.  Evolution  in  man 
and  in  society  is  with  him  only  a  more  complex, 
physical  process  than  that  which  has  from  the  be- 
ginning proceeded  in  inorganic  and  organic  matter. 
Between  Hume  and  Spencer,  lie  the  works  ot 
two  powerful  minds  in  close  sympathy  with  them. 
The  Mills,  in  vigor  of  thought,  worthily  stand  be- 
tween the  two.  The  leading  work  of  James  Mill  is 
an  Analysis  of  the  Phenomena  of  the  Human  Mind. 
He  gets  much  the  old  start  in  sensations,  and  in 
ideas  the  lingering  traces  of  sensations,  and,  under 
the  fruitful  law  of  association,  proceeds  to  develop 
these  into  imagination,  memory,  belief.  The  road 
is  one  which  many  feet  have  travelled  from  the  time 


MILL.  313 

of  Locke,  till  it  has  become  the  beaten  path  of  sen- 
sationalism, each  succeeding  investigator  bringing 
new  relations  and  a  little  new  light  to  its  details. 

The  leading  philosophical  work  of  John  Stuart 
Mill  is  one  on  logic,  the  inductive  logic,  which  he 
strives  to  establish  to  the  exclusion  of  fundamental 
truths, — of  deduction  as  primitive  proof.  Therein, 
and  in  many  other  ways,  he  shows  his  adherence  to 
the  school  whose  development  we  have  briefly  traced, 
(i)  The  initial  feature  of  it  is  sensation  as  the  ex- 
clusive source  of  knowledge.  (2)  From  this  follows 
the  resolution  of  mental  facts  into  floating  phenom- 
ena, united  only  by  laws  of  association ;  (3)  phenom- 
ena, from  which  nothing  in  any  direction  can  be 
predicated  concerning  real  being.  (4)  One  ulti- 
mate relation  includes  all  others,  that  of  resem- 
blance ;  while  (5)  belief  is  the  transient  force  of 
existing  connections  in  the  mind.  (6)  Every  idea 
that  will  not  accept  this  solution  is  denied,  or  modi 
fled  or  falsely  referred.  These  conclusions  may  be 
reached  in  different  forms  or  partially  missed. 
They  are  none  the  less  in  the  system.  To  these 
John  Stuart  Mill  added  (7)  induction  or  observa- 
tion as  the  complete,  exclusive  source  of  proof. 
This  also  is  undeniable,  if  experience  is  our  only 
means  of  knowledge,  and  all  knowledge  is  expressed 
under  resemblances ;  for  induction  is  the  union 
by  experience  of  agreeing  things  and  facts.  For 
inductive  logic,  Mill  has  done  much,  and  here  lies 
his  chief  merit.  The  deductive  logic,  however,  re- 
turns instantly  to  us  as  the  moiety  of  a  complete 
system,  when  we  recognize  intuitive  truths. 
14 


314     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

It  remains  now  only  to  speak  of  the  opposing 
Scottish  school,  immediately  called  forth  by  Hume, 
and  whose  chief  philosophers  were  first  Reid,  last 
Hamilton,  with  Stewart  and  others  associated  with 
them. 

Reid  took  his  appeal  against  the  conclusions 
of  Hume  afresh  to  the  common-sense,  or  common- 
consciousness  of  the  race.  He  claimed  anew  the 
intuitive  force  of  the  mind,  and  strove  to  lead  by 
means  of  it  to  a  fresh  view  of  the  doctrine  of 
perception.  Locke  and  Hume  had  neither  of  them 
any  means  of  establishing  a  belief  in  the  external 
world.  There  are  two  ways  by  which  this  space 
between  mind  and  matter,  sensations  and  the 
objects  to  which  they  pertain,  can  be  bridged 
over.  The  sensation  can  be  regarded  as  exclu- 
sively a  mental  fact  or  state,  and  then,  by  the 
idea  of  causation,  referred  to  external  being  as  a 
source  or  cause  ;  or  the  sensation  may  be  regarded 
as  a  conjoint  product  in  which  both  mind  and 
matter  are  present  and  directly  recognizable. 
Neither  explanation  was  open  to  the  philosophy 
of  Locke.  He  did  not  accept  the  intuitive  act 
of  mind  by  which  it  reaches  the  cause  in  the 
effect,  he  could  not,  therefore,  pass  from  the 
sensation  to  a  real  exterior  source  of  it.  Neither 
did  he  find  in  the  sensation  itself  two  constitu- 
ents which  the  mind  immediately  perceives.  He 
accepted  the  traditional  view  of  perception,  that 
it  is  a  detached  state  confined  wholly  to  the 
mind  itself.  His  philosophy  had  then  no  method 
of  establishing   the  being  of   matter.      Reid   and 


REID.  315 

Hamilton  have  both  labored  at  length  this  doc- 
trine of  perception.  Reid's  appeal  to  the  common- 
sense  of  men,  was  taken  without  sufficient  an- 
alysis, and  hence  bears  a  dogmatic  character.  He 
has  left  it  uncertain,  whether  he  regarded  sen- 
sation itself  as  a  direct  contact  with  the  exter- 
nal world,  or  whether  it  is  instantly  completed 
by  an  intuitive  action  of  the  mind,  and  the 
reference  of  effects  to  causes  becomes  the  medium 
by  which  this  union  is  effected.  We  suppose  him 
to  have  obscurely  held  this  last  view.  Hamilton 
ascribes  to  him  the  first.  Hamilton  maintained 
staunchly,  and,  as  it  seems  to  us,  very  mis- 
takenly, the  doctrine  of  immediate,  direct  knowl- 
edge of  physical  objects  in  perception. 

The  Scottish  school,  more  especially  Hamilton, 
while  far  in  advance  of  the  Lockian  philosophy, 
was  most  unfavorably  affected  by  it,  and  was  un- 
able to  construct  a  consistent,  complete  system. 
We  feel  more  inclined  to  censure  than  to  praise  it. 

The  action  it  assigns  the  reason,  the  central,  in- 
tuitive faculty  of  the  soul,  is  very  insufficient.  The 
division  recognized  b;^  Coleridge,  of  the  sense,  the 
understanding  and  the  reason,  is  more  fertile  in 
growth  than  the  entire  philosophy  of  Hamilton. 
We  make  complaint  of  inadequacy  against  this 
philosophy,  and  of  limitations  cast  upon  it  by  pre- 
vious thought,  at  many  points.  Hamilton  and 
Mansel  are  both  enslaved  by  the  idea  of  the  con- 
ceivable and  inconceivable,  the  imaginable  and 
unimaginable,  as  setting  the  limits  of  belief ;  and 
on  this  ground,  reject,  as  against  the  insight  of 


3t6    the  philosophy  of  English  literature. 

the  reason,  a  knowledge  of  the  infinite.  Here, 
they  are  virtually  back  in  the  old  slough  of  sensa- 
tions, and  ideas  their  shadows,  as  the  sum  of 
knowable  things. 

Again,  the  idea  of  causation  does  not  arise  with 
Hamilton  from  the  power  of  the  mind,  but  from  its 
impotency  rather,  its  inability  to  think  or  conceive 
a  thing  into  nonentity.  Here  he  is  practically 
with  Hume,  and  makes  causation  a  notion  fastened 
upon  us  by  the  imagination,  instead  of  a  cardinal 
fruit  of  the  reason.  Once  more,  having  thus  re- 
moved the  idea  of  causation,  he  strives  to  make 
sensation  do  its  work,  and  affirms  us  to  be  directly 
conscious  of  matter  and  mind.  This,  we  believe,  to 
be  pure  assertion,  thrown  in  to  help  out  the  self-con- 
stituted weakness  of  his  system.  Having  closed 
up  the  door  to  the  real  being  of  mind  and  of  mat- 
ter, he  makes  this  rent  in  the  wall  to  supply  its 
place.  The  doctrine  is  plausible  only  because  sen- 
sation is  a  complex  process  which  results  in  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  outside  world,  and,  falsely  looked  on 
as  a  single,  simple  act,  may  be  said  directly  to  reach 
that  result. 

The  drift  of  English  thought  down  through 
Hobbes,  Locke,  Hartley,  Hume,  J.  Mill,  J.  S.  Mill 
and  Spencer,  we  have  seen  to  be  steadily  toward 
materialism.  The  chief  resistance  has  been  offered 
by  the  religious  convictions  of  the  nation.  It  is 
these  that  have  made  the  word,  materialist,  oppro- 
brious, and  one  which  few  of  the  school  have  been 
willing  to  accept. 

The    reluctance    of  this   school    to   admit    the 


CONTRADICTIONS.  317 

adjective,  materialistic,  while  struggling  to  make 
absolute  and  universal  those  necessary  connections 
which  are  the  characteristic  of  the  physical  world, 
and  the  complete  expression  of  physical  force,  is 
but  one  of  its  inconsistencies.  It  is  true,  the  pos- 
sibility of  strict  materialism  or  strict  idealism  has 
been  lost  to  it,  since  the  existence  of  matter  and 
mind  are  both  unproved  ;  but  the  appearances  with 
which  this  philosophy  does  occupy  itself,  are,  in 
every  one  of  their  connections,  those  ascribed  to 
physical  being.  Though  the  floating  facts  of  our 
experience  are  only  film  deep,  in  the  depth  and 
coherence  that  do  belong  to  them,  they  are  fixed, 
necessary,  and  hence,  in  essence,  physical. 

This  philosophy  also  started  with  a  predilection 
for  induction,  and  later,  through  Mill,  declares  this  to 
be  the  sum  of  logic.  Yet  no  system  has  been 
more  exclusively  deductive,  more  in  the  face  of  all 
experience,  than  that  of  Hume,  who,  after  all,  is 
the  central  mind  of  the  school.  Start  with  his 
simple,  assumed  premise,  the  nature  of  knowledge, 
and  every  subsequent  step  is  evolved  with  almost 
the  exactness  and  the  freedom  from  observation 
which  belong  to  mathematics. 

Again,  this  philosophy,  so  purely  deductive,  so 
skeptical  of  the  very  being  of  the  external  world, 
strikes  hands  with  natural  science  as  its  coadjutor, 
and  stands  in  close  affinity  with  it.  Religion,  on 
the  other  hand,  as  over-speculative,  and  dealing  with 
unsubstantial  ideas,  it  censures  and  shuns.  This 
from  a  philosophy  that  has  to  do  with  images  only, 
and  cannot  transcend  the  merest  film  of  being  in 


3l8     THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

any  direction  ;  that  confessed  in  its  corypheus,  thai 
its  pursuit  was  a  question  of  pleasure  merely ! 
Contradictions  and  inconclusiveness  can  scarcely 
go  farther.  If  all  is  dream,  one  should  certainly  be 
t^ft  to  dream  the  dream  most  pleasant  to  him.  A 
philosophy  of  dreams,  what  has  it  to  do  with  sci- 
ence }  It  should  stand  affiliated  with  any  easy 
wayward  thought ;  if  that  thought  be  either  brilliant 
or  consoling. 

There  is  in  this  development  of  the  English 
mind,  especially  if  we  regard  the  ethical  bearing  of 
the  points  in  discussion,  a  slow,  sedimentary  set- 
tling of  commercial  sentiment  and  principles,  which 
turn  on  a  sense  of  present  well-being,  from  among 
the  loftier,  more  lucid  and  spiritual  elements  of 
thought,  and  their  patient,  half-mechanical  com- 
bination into  those  stratified  products,  those  grow- 
ing deposits  of  successive  generations,  known  as 
sensationalism.  Indeed,  if  the  system  be  true,  this 
is  rather  an  exact  physical,  than  a  figurative  state- 
ment of  the  process.  This  philosophy  is  strictly  a 
resultant  habit,  a  slowly  acquired  chronic  tendency 
» of  brain,  depositing  and  completing  its  beliefs  in 
residuary  fashion  from  age  to  age. 

We  trust  that  the  implied  half  of  the  simile  will 
also  prove  true,  and  that  the  clarified  waters  above, 
the  elements  relieved  of  this  sordid  contact,  will  be 
only  the  more  thoroughly  and  brilliantly  permeated 
with  the  light  of  Heaven,  that  direct  light,  which 
the  reason  of  man  mediates  to  the  human  soul. 

THE    END. 


R 


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